


Closest Kept

by Eienvine



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Thor (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-03 14:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15820785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: Sif wasn’t meant to know the truth about Loki, but he is dying and Frigga is desperate to save him, even if that means taking him to a Jotun healer. It turns out that the king and queen have been keeping a secret about their son, and that Sif has a decision to make about where her heart lies. Epilogue now up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't find anything conclusive on the nature of Loki's Asgardian appearance (i.e. is it a surface illusion or a deeper shift), so I made a few things up. Forgive me if something I say contradicts the movies and I just didn't notice.

. . . . . .

Fire that’s closest kept burns most of all. - William Shakespeare, _Two Gentlemen of Verona,_ I.ii

. . . . . .

When the door to the healing room opens, three pairs of eyes lift expectantly, then drop again in disappointment. It’s only Frigga, sweeping in to look at the still figure in the bed.

“Any change?” she asks quietly, and Thor, pacing near the window, shakes his head.

“None at all,” he says, then hesitates, his face pained. “Mother, this is all my fault—”

Frigga raises an elegant hand, cutting off his self-flagellation before it really begins, which the lady Sif thinks is a pity. She usually enjoys Thor’s antics, and the glorious adventures he gets them into, but this time it absolutely is all his fault, and it might do him some good to confess the full extent of his stupidity. He went too far, seeking a fight with that fire demon, and now part of Asgard is in ruins, Odin is in the Odinsleep, and Loki—

She bites her lip and digs her fingernails into her palms.

“I must find Eir,” says Frigga, with a grim sort of determination in her face, and sweeps from the room. As always, Frigga is dignity personified, but the stress and strain of the last five days have left their mark even on her; there’s a tension to the set of her shoulders and the line of her mouth that Sif has never seen in the queen, not in the six hundred years she’s known her.

The door shuts behind her, and Thor goes back to his pacing. Hogun resumes his position next to the bed, as though standing watch over the fallen prince, and Sif sinks back down into her chair, thinking about the expression on Frigga’s face and praying that it doesn’t mean what she thinks it means.

Because Eir is the greatest healer in the Nine Realms, is she not? Sif has seen the woman work miracles. Surely she can do something. Sif repeats this to herself several times, then glances over at Loki’s still form, his face impossibly pale, even by his standards. And her mantra changes to a prayer: _please, let her do something._

The healer’s face, when she enters the room ten minutes later, does not inspire confidence. But Frigga looks surprisingly serene, and Sif feels the weight on her chest lift, just a little.

“There’s something we’d like to try,” says Frigga.

Thor steps forward, his eyes full of hope.

“After examining Loki’s wounds, and going over your accounts of the fight, we have come to believe that the weapon that struck him was cursed.”

“Which is why he is not healing well,” Thor says in tones of realization and rising optimism. “But curses can be broken, right?”

Sif doesn’t share his optimism. A curse is a strange diagnosis, at this point. She has no skill in magic, but what she does remember from her training on the subject is that curses are strong, often flashy; how could Eir and Frigga, the two greatest sorceresses in Asgard, have missed a curse for five whole days?

But on the other hand, Eir and Frigga are the two greatest sorceresses in Asgard. Who is Sif to doubt their word?

“Indeed,” says Frigga. “And I believe I have identified the cure for this curse. There is a waterfall on a moon above Vanaheim with certain properties. I believe that bathing Loki in this waterfall could cure him.”

Thor’s shoulders sag in relief. “Then to Vanaheim we go,” he says firmly, but the queen shakes her head.

“You must stay here, my son. This cure requires magic. Eir cannot go, for she is still tending to the wounded here, and there is none other I trust who is powerful enough. And if I am to go, that leaves only you to reign while I am gone.”

“Someone else can do it,” says Thor firmly. “Loki is my brother—”

Frigga steps forward to place a hand on his arm. “I don’t doubt your love for Loki, or your desire to make this right. But with your father in the Odinsleep, I need you here.” Thor frowns, and she adds kindly, “Don’t make me order you, darling.”

“Fine,” Thor sighs. “But you must take protection.”

“Of course,” says Frigga. “I had thought to ask the lady Sif, if she is willing.”

Sif perks up, surprised and pleased; the queen has always been very kind to her, but she is still young, as warriors go, and the royal family rarely singles her out to request her services. And if this journey could save Loki’s life . . . “I would be honored, my queen.”

“That’s settled, then. And that is all the traveling party we need, for Vanaheim is our ally, and I expect no trouble there. We shall be gone only a few days. In the meantime, my son, be wise, and make no rash decisions. Listen to the counsel of Tyr and Heimdall, and of Hogun here, for he keeps a level head even when calamity strikes.”

The queen and the Vanir warrior share a smile.

Thor grudgingly takes his leave with a kiss for his mother, then puts a hand on Loki’s shoulder. Whatever he’s thinking, he keeps to himself, but his brow creases in pain as he looks down at his brother’s comatose form.

And then he claps a hand on Sif’s shoulder. “Keep them safe for me,” he commands. “They are precious to me. I could not bear to lose either of them.”

She gives him a nod, and with a last look around the room, Thor and Hogun leave.

Eir crosses the room to check Loki’s vitals while Frigga turns to Sif. “Now, dear, bring your warmest furs and your heavy boots; it’s quite cold where we’re going. And I think, perhaps, your simplest leather armor, and bring what weapons can be concealed. I expect no resistance, but it’s wisest that we look as unthreatening as possible.”

By the bed, Eir shakes her head, her lips pressed into a tight line, and Frigga raises an eyebrow. “Something you’d like to say, Eir?”

The healer looks up at her, and Sif has never seen that well-loved face show such disapproval and . . . is that fear? “Will such precautions be enough?” she asks carefully.

“I have thought this through carefully,” says Frigga. “And I’m not exactly helpless myself, you know.”

“But even if you travel in safety,” the healer counters, “there will be consequences. Either way, there will be consequences.”

Sif is beginning to think she’s very much not meant to overhear this conversation.

Frigga’s voice sounds tighter with every word. “And if we do nothing, Loki dies.”

“You know how this could turn out—”

“I will not lose my son!” Frigga snaps. “Not like this. Not when I could save him. I will order your cooperation if I must.”

And Eir’s expression softens. “Of course that’s not necessary. I’m only worried about you, my queen.”

A soft answer turns away wrath. “I know, dear friend Eir. And I will be as careful as I know how.”

Eir gives a half bow. “I will prepare the prince for transport.”

“Thank you. And Sif, dear, I will meet you at the stables in half an hour. And . . . I would appreciate you speaking to no one of our mission, and what you’ve heard just now.”

And Sif can do nothing but bow and go to pack her things, wondering what has Eir so worried, and what Frigga is keeping to herself.

. . . . . .

Forty-five minutes later, Heimdall is walking out of the Observatory to greet the traveling party crossing the Rainbow Bridge: Frigga and Sif, both mounted and dressed in heavy furs and simple, sturdy clothing and armor; Loki, still unconscious, on a hovering litter being pulled behind Frigga’s horse.

Sif catches her half-brother’s eye and sees the approval there; he knows how significant it is that she’s been chosen as the queen’s bodyguard. But the look turns to concern when his gaze moves to the queen. “This is a complicated mission you undertake, your highness.”

“Yes, I know,” says Frigga, with a touch of irritation in her voice. “Eir already warned me. At length.”

At that, Heimdall does something Sif’s rarely seen him do: smile. “I would make the same choice you are making, were I in your situation. I wish only to tell you to take care, and assure you I will have my eye on you, ready to pull you back at any moment.”

Relief creases Frigga’s eyes. “Thank you, old friend.”

“Be on your guard, sister,” Heimdall tells Sif as the party moves into the Observatory. “Keep your eyes open and follow your instructions exactly.”

It takes all of Sif’s training to keep from demanding answers. But apparently she doesn’t manage to keep her confusion from her face, because Frigga smiles a little. “Don’t worry, Sif. All your questions will be answered very soon.”

She nods to Heimdall, and the traveling party is spirited away by the Bifrost.

. . . . . .

They are not on a moon of Vanaheim. Sif knows Vanaheim well, and its handful of moons, and there is no spot in all the realm like this place: uneven, icy ground; jagged, spindly rocks jutting out of it at every angle; to one side, a field of scrubby vegetation the likes of which she’s never seen, growing into what seem to be taller trees in the distance.

And the cold! She’s never experienced temperatures like this, not in all her travels. Even in her warmest furs and heaviest boots, she feels it like slow-growing ice in her bones. This is not the ordinary cold of winter; there’s something almost malicious in it.

And Sif looks suspiciously at Frigga. “Have we come to the right place?”

“We are exactly where I intended us to be,” is Frigga’s serene answer.

“And you intended us to be . . .”

Frigga pulls up the fur-lined hood of her robe. “On Jotunheim.”

Jotunheim! Land of monsters? Of Asgard’s great enemies? Of the aggressors of a war so terrible that even now, eight hundred years later, Asgardians still speak of it in hushed tones? Sif looks around anxiously, ensuring that they are alone.

“Your highness,” she hisses, “the treaty . . .”

“We are on the opposite side of the planet from King Laufey,” the queen reassures her. “And I have a powerful cloaking spell on us; even Laufey’s most powerful sorcerers couldn’t find us unless they knew where to look. He will never know we were here.”

“But why _are_ we here?”

“There is a healer in this forest. For the task I will ask of her, she is wiser and more powerful even than Eir. I believe she can heal Loki.”

This makes Sif pause. If this Jotun can do what Eir cannot, and save Loki . . . but still, this is the land of their great enemies.  And still, she has questions. “How is a Jotun going to do what Eir could not? Why did you lie to Thor about where we were going? Why was Eir so worried about consequences? Why did you—” She suddenly remembers who she’s talking to. “I apologize, your highness, it is not my place to question you.”

Frigga simply smiles. “That you question me, that you speak truth to authority, is one of my favorite things about you, Sif. Never apologize for that. As for your questions, you will know the answers soon enough.” She hesitates. “But first I must ask: you care for my Loki, do you not?”

Sif freezes, and even in the biting cold feels a touch of heat in her face. That’s . . . complicated, too complicated to answer in the time available on an unprotected plain on Jotunheim, and she doesn’t know how to respond and she can feel her face growing ever warmer, and then she turns to see Frigga watching her with a placid smile.

“I meant, as a friend,” she says mildly, and Sif’s face flames bright red. “I take it that’s a yes?”

Sif nods, forcing herself back under control.

Suddenly all seriousness again, Frigga gives her a grave look. “Then for his sake, and for mine, I must ask you to do something for me.”

Again, Sif nods.

“Swear, on your honor as a warrior, that you will not reveal anything that happens on this journey, or anything that you see or hear.”

A serious oath indeed, but this is her queen, and Sif would die for her. Surely she can keep a secret for her too, although she can’t imagine why Frigga thinks it’s necessary. “I swear it. On my honor as a warrior.”

That taken care of, Frigga prods her horse into motion, leading the way into the scrubby bushes. Sif notes with appreciation that the cold lessens the farther they go into the forest; once the trees are towering overhead, the temperature becomes rather more bearable.

“Then, three important things,” she says as Sif pulls her horse up alongside her. “First, let me do all the talking. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not even make a sound.”

Sif, always a better warrior than diplomat, is only too happy to agree.

“Second, this healer, Hundith, is blind and lives alone, and as far as I know, her gifts do not include any extra-sensory perception. I am hoping that we can keep her from discovering that we are of Asgard, for I assume she would not react well. If you must speak, do not say anything to indicate where we are from; I hope to avoid even using any names, especially mine or Loki’s, as we may be widely known throughout the Nine Realms. And do not let her touch you; her skin will burn you with cold, and she will immediately know you are not a frost giant.”

A very wise strategy; Sif agrees.

“Lastly, and this is important, do not lie. One of Hundith’s magical gifts is that she can always recognize a lie that is spoken, no matter the skill of the liar. She will not trust us in her home if she catches us in a lie.”

“So if she asks me directly if I am an Asgardian?”

Frigga winces. “We will cross that bridge if we come to it. Are we agreed?”

“Agreed.”

. . . . . .

A few minutes later, they catch sight of what is clearly a house, although it’s built in a different style from any Sif has seen. It’s large, made of a mix of stone and wood and ice; a few outbuildings dot the yard—one is clearly the barn—and surrounding it all is a stone fence with a gate. It is, in its way, not unlike the farms back home.

Frigga dismounts and pulls the heavy furs off Loki, leaving him bare-chested and impossibly pale on the litter. Eir’s work has repaired the surface wounds to his skin, but the bruising still visible hints at the extensive damage to his internal organs—damage Eir has been unable to entirely heal. “Are you ready?” Frigga asks, and Sif nods.

And then she jumps as Frigga waves a hand toward Loki and suddenly his appearance changes. The paleness of his skin morphs into a sky blue, and raised ridges appear—markings or scars of some sort, arranged into patterns: repeated lines and half circles and triangles, covering his face and torso . . .

This is how Loki would appear as a Jotun, Sif realizes. She’s never seen a Jotun herself, as the truce keeps them from intermingling, but he resembles the paintings she’s seen. Changing his appearance seems unnecessary to fool this Hundith, given that she’s blind, but clearly the queen has a plan, so Sif says nothing.

Frigga gestures for Sif to stay at the gate with the horses and Loki, and she herself dismounts, crosses the yard, and knocks on the massive wooden door. There’s a few moments of silence, and then the door opens slowly; the angle of it means that Sif can’t see into the house, nor catch sight of the frost giant, although Frigga’s eye level indicates that whoever she’s looking at is tall.

Frigga begins to speak—the distance means Sif catches none of it—and gestures back toward their little traveling party a few times. Finally some agreement is apparently reached, because Frigga walks back to the horses, and the Jotun follows.

Sif’s only experience with frost giants has been paintings and drawings of the war, so she’s never seen an elderly Jotun or a female. Hundith the healer, it turns out, doesn’t look half so threatening as the pictures Sif’s seen of Laufey. She is thin and stooped with age (although she still stands more than a head taller than Frigga); her skin is a faded, grayish blue; her unseeing eyes are milky white. There is little to mark her as a female, except that her features are a little softer than those of the male of the species; the lines of her body, under the simple leather tunic she wears, show the tiniest hint of feminine curves. Despite her obvious age, and although she moves with some difficulty and leans on a walking stick, Hundith carries herself with confidence, and Sif gets the distinct sense that only a fool would assume the giantess is helpless.

“Where is the girl?” Hundith asks, the universal translator on Sif’s belt translating the words into Asgardian.

“I’m here,” says Sif when Frigga nods at her. And she takes a moment to be grateful that Hundith cannot see that the movements of Sif’s lips did not match the Jotun words that the translator will have sent to her ears.

“Hold this,” Hundith commands, and holds her walking stick out in the direction of Sif’s voice. Luckily the Jotun’s height means that it’s easy for Sif to grab the stick without dismounting from her horse. “It’s kind of you to travel all this way for the young man’s sake.”

It’s a statement that expects an answer, and Frigga nods to indicate she should respond. To tell the easiest truth—“My queen commanded it”—would give away too much about their identities. So she gives another answer, equally true: “I would see him healed. He is . . . important to me.”

That seems to satisfy Hundith, who kneels down beside the litter with some difficulty, then stretches her hands out over Loki’s supine body. “He’s fading,” she says bluntly. “You’ve nearly left it too long, bringing him to me.”

“But can you help him?” Frigga asks with a hint of desperation in her voice.

In response, Hundith brings her pale blue hands down to rest on Loki’s bare torso, and Sif opens her mouth to shout a warning—the Jotun’s touch will burn Loki’s skin with cold—then remembers her instructions and bites her tongue instead.

But there’s no visible reaction to her touch. Some spell that Frigga has cast, perhaps?

“The damage is extensive,” says Hundith. “I will do what I can, but I will warn you now, lady, it may not be enough.”

“Some chance is better than none,” says Frigga softly.

The giantess moves her hands to a few other places on his body: his forehead, his shoulders, his arms. “Awfully small for a Jotun, isn’t he? But then, so are you.”

“He always was,” Frigga says quietly, her gaze fixed on her son. “I never have known why.”

Sif stares at the queen. The queen does not return her gaze.

Hundith struggles to her feet. “We must get him inside.”

“I will bring in his conveyance,” Frigga says, unhooking it from her horse, and looking to Sif. “Will you see to our animals, dear?”

“Put them in the barn,” Hundith says, as she and Frigga walk to the house, the hover litter trailing along behind them.

And Sif, her mind a maelstrom of shock and suspicion, can do nothing but follow her queen’s orders.

In the barn are a handful of gentle-looking beasts Sif does not recognize, penned into stalls; she finds two open stalls to put the horses in and gets them settled with feed and water. And then she sits heavily on a wooden box and stares unseeingly at the ground a moment, things said and unsaid coming together in her mind.

Eir, the greatest healer among the Asgardians, can do nothing for Loki, but this Jotun might be able to.

The Jotun’s touch did not burn his skin.

The Jotun healer examined his body and saw nothing to indicate that her patient was actually Aesir.

And Sif feels her heart turn to ice. Maybe when Frigga’s magic turned Loki blue, she wasn’t putting a disguise on him. Maybe she was taking one off.

The questions are suddenly suffocating her, and she runs into the house. Loki’s been moved to a cot in the center of the main room, and Hundith is sitting next to him in a comfortable-looking chair covered with animal hides, staring sightlessly across the room while her lips silently form incantations and her hands prod his torso and form arcane gestures.

Frigga stands nearby, her hands clasped tightly together, her gaze fixed firmly on her son. She does not look up when Sif enters, which Sif supposes to be because of her worry. But as the minutes tick on and Frigga never looks up, Sif starts to suspect the queen is avoiding the questions she knows are coming.

And Loki is as still as he has been since he fell in battle, his torso mangled by the fire demon’s mace, and Sif looks at that familiar face marred by those unfamiliar colors and patterns, and suddenly finds herself pacing.

She paces because there is nothing else for her to do; this is clearly a moment where interruptions would be unwelcome, and questioning Frigga would give away too many secrets to Hundith. She paces because the questions and fears that have been plaguing her since she went to the barn won’t let her stay still. She paces because despite everything—despite what she suspects and the fear that it fills her with—there’s still sorrow and pain in her heart when she looks at Loki’s battered, unmoving body.

They stay like this for what feels like hours, until Hundith sits back with a sigh. “He’s stable,” she says. “He’s not healed, but he won’t get worse.”

Frigga steps toward her. “He’s not healed?” she repeats sharply.

“Don’t be ungrateful, that was hard work,” Hundith fires back. “We’ll continue in a few hours, but I must rest for a while. Spellcasting drains me, and I’m no longer young.” She lumbers to her feet, muttering, “Barely remember being young anymore, come to think of it,” and in spite of herself, Sif smiles.

“I’ll be lying down,” the giantess continues, pointing with her walking stick in the direction of a nearby door. “In the meantime, you—” she points the stick in the direction of Frigga’s voice— “need to take the young one outside and calm her down. Her pacing is driving me out of my mind.” And she shuffles away to what must be her bedroom, grumbling “Sweethearts in the sickroom, always a terrible idea.”

Sif has a few questions about that statement, but she has far more about the blue-skinned young man still unconscious on the cot before her. And perhaps Frigga finally realizes there’s no avoiding that conversation, because she looks up at Sif, her expression resigned, and then gestures toward the door.

The queen and the warrior walk out the gate and stand outside the yard—outside Hundith’s hearing, just in case—and Frigga looks calmly at Sif. “I suppose you have some questions.”

And Sif hesitates, suddenly hesitant to demand answers on such a personal family matter.

“It’s all right,” Frigga says. “Ask.”

Sif stares at the queen, her lips pressed into a tight line, then finds her voice. “What is Loki?”

“What do you think he is?”

“Is he a Jotun?”

Frigga is serene as she speaks the word that shatters Sif’s whole worldview: “Yes.”

Loki. A Jotun. Loki Odinson, prince of Asgard, for whom Sif has . . . Loki is the monster Asgardians fear.

“How?” Sif demands. “Why? Why make Asgard’s great enemy a prince of the realm?”

“Loki has never been Asgard’s enemy,” Frigga responds sharply. “He was only a baby when he came to Asgard. Besides, not all Jotuns are responsible for the actions of their king.”

Sif considers this. “How did you come to adopt him?”

“Odin found him, after the last battle of our great war with Jotunheim.” Frigga hesitates. “He is the son of King Laufey,” she adds, and Sif’s world, already spinning off-kilter, tilts another few degrees off its axis. “Laufey abandoned the child, left him to die—probably because of his size. Odin couldn’t leave a baby to die in the snow, not even the son of his great enemy. Besides, he hoped that Loki could be a key to peace between the two realms.”

That sounds like Odin, to have both personal and political reasoning behind his actions. “And you?”

Frigga’s face softens. “I loved him the moment I saw him,” she says. “And I’ve loved him more every day since then. Such a gentle child, and impossibly clever. And he clung to me from the very beginning; Thor was learning to walk by this point, and rarely tolerated his mother’s hugs, but Loki would sit on my lap for hours.” Her eyes take on the far-off look that comes with retreading well-loved memories.

“Does anyone else know?”

“Eir,” says Frigga. “Even when he is shifted, elements of his physiology are still Jotun in nature—that is, after all, why we’re here. She had to know, in order to give him medical care.”

Sif shakes her head slowly; there’s anxiety buzzing through her veins, a sense of dread when she thinks of the terrible stories she’s heard . . . and, she supposes, some amount of embarrassment at the fact that she never even suspected. She, who prides herself on observing every detail because in the field it can be the difference between life and death, never even suspected. It makes her voice sharp. “You say you’ve always loved him. And yet you did not tell him the truth of his birth, or let him wear his own face. Did you and Odin fear what he might do, might become, if he discovered his true nature?”

It’s amazing how the look of disappointment that crosses Frigga’s face hits Sif like a blow from Thor’s hammer. She’s said something wrong, and she’s not entirely sure what it was.

“I did not cast the shift on Loki,” Frigga answers. “He cast it on himself.”

Sif frowns.

“It’s true. He’s always been an incredibly powerful sorcerer; magic runs in the Jotun race far more than the Aesir. Even before he was formally trained, he was exceptionally talented at basic, unformed enchantments—simply making things happen through force of will. When Odin first picked him up, first rescued him from certain death, he changed himself to match the man holding him. And he’s been unconsciously keeping up that enchantment ever since; he’s been doing it so long—since before he can remember—that he doesn’t notice it, the way you never notice the muscle movements required to blink your eyes or breathe.”

Sif takes a moment to consider this, then asks, “And as for not telling him the truth?”

“We kept his background a secret for his sake,” Frigga answers. “We did not want him to feel like he was anything less than our son. And we worried about how he’d be treated by the rest of Asgard. The war with Jotunheim cost thousands of Asgardians their lives, and had only just ended. We worried he would be treated badly, if people knew he was a Jotun. We worried that despite the fact that he had nothing to do with the war, people would still assume his ‘true nature’ was evil.”

She says that last phrase with a pointed look at Sif, who flushes with embarrassment. So that’s what she said wrong.

“My apologies,” she says formally. “I’m just trying to come to terms with this news. Everything has changed.”

“Has it?” Frigga demands. “He has always been your friend, and he has always been a Jotun. All that has changed is what you know.”

A reasonable argument, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’ve all been lied to for centuries, that the prince is not what they’ve always been allowed to believe. It doesn’t change the fact that Loki is the monster that haunts Asgardian children’s nightmares.

(It doesn’t address what Sif let herself feel, what she let herself wish. And when she thinks about that now . . .)

“Sif?” Frigga prompts.

“I . . . Of course Loki has always been my friend,” says Sif. “But surely you understand why I’m struggling.”

“I do.”

Still she thinks the Allmother isn't entirely pleased, and she finds herself adding, “I simply want to process everything before I react; I would not like to be rash.”

That was the right thing to say, apparently, because Frigga gives her a small smile and a steady, affectionate look. “That was why I wanted you as my bodyguard for this journey: if one of the warriors had to know the truth, I’d rather it was you, because I trust your thoughtfulness and sense. And discretion.”

A high compliment from the queen, even if Sif does suspect Frigga’s only saying it to guilt her into not getting upset about all this.

Especially when Frigga follows it up with, “So can I rely on you, my dear, to keep this secret, and to support my son?”

And of course the answer is going to be yes, no matter how her mind is spinning as it attempts to make sense of this new information. Frigga is her queen, Loki her prince, and she swore fealty to the throne centuries ago. Not to mention, Frigga is like a beloved aunt to her, and Loki is . . . Loki is . . .

“Yes.”

Frigga gives her a relieved smile.

. . . . . .


	2. Chapter 2

. . . . . .

When Hundith wakes up, she and Frigga return to the sickroom, while Sif is dispatched to the kitchen to muster her mediocre culinary skills and rustle up something for dinner. They eat around the sick bed, and Hundith, clearly glad to have company, regales them with tales of scrapes she got into in her youth. Sif is surprised to find herself softening toward the old giantess, who is sarcastic and funny, and was clearly quite the adventurer when she was young. A Jotun who is not quite the monster Sif has always believed . . . It has been a strange day.

Night falls, and Hundith goes to her room while Frigga and Sif unroll bedrolls on either side of Loki’s cot. Frigga quickly falls asleep, her breathing becoming slow and even, but Sif lays stiffly on her bedroll until she identifies another sound in the room: Loki’s breathing, shallow and nearly silent. That’s unusual for him; she’s bunked near him on enough quests and journeys to know the sound of his breathing, and this is not how it should sound, he sounds so weak—

—and the next thing she knows she is sitting up on her bedroll, knees pulled up to her chest, watching in the dim light to make sure his chest is rising and falling, like an anxious mother with a new child. But even with her focus on his breathing, she can’t help but notice the blue of his skin, the patterns of ridges that crisscross his body, and it leaves her with a strange pang in her chest. The Loki she thought she knew is gone; in fact he never existed.

But then Loki's been drifting away for a while.

Things have been different between them these last months, maybe years; he’s pulled away, a little, from the whole group, become just a bit standoffish and just a bit secretive. But the few times she's spoken to him of it, asked if they've done something to upset him, he's claimed that nothing is wrong and he doesn't know what she's talking about. So she doesn’t try much anymore. She’s proud, as proud as he is, and she’s not the sort to keep reaching out after repeated rejections. Not to mention that Thor and the Warriors Three seem not to have noticed his growing distance from them, making her wonder if she's seeing the situation wrong.

And, of course, the more her friendship with Loki seems to slip through her fingers, the less she lets herself think about the possibility of . . . any other sort of connection with him.

And now he is a Jotun.

Or rather, he has always been a Jotun, and Frigga and Odin have lied to them all.

Deep down Sif knows this isn’t something she can hold against Loki; he didn’t know the truth  any more than she did, and Frigga is right, he had nothing to do with the war against Asgard. But all the same, he has that potential within him, does he not? His very being is antagonistic to Asgard, really, for when he is in his true form, he cannot touch an Asgardian without doing them harm. She cannot take his hand, as he lies on his sickbed, without immense pain. It’s hard not to take that as as sign.

And as she sits there, alone in the dark in a frost giant’s house in a distant corner of Jotunheim, feeling as far from home as she has ever felt, she admits something to herself, something she’d never admit out loud: some of her feeling of betrayal now comes from the thought that . . . She’s never thought very seriously of marriage and children. But maybe, if Loki . . . Would Frigga and Odin have told them the truth then? Or would they have let her bear a half-Jotun child, with no idea of what she was getting herself into?

Her thoughts have gone too far down a path she usually keeps them from walking, and she reels them back in and focuses on relaxing her mind and attempting to sleep. But when she finally does drift off, it is the rhythm of Loki’s breathing— _ inhale, exhale, _ shallow but  _ alive, alive _ —that lulls her to sleep.

. . . . . .

The next day brings more long rounds of spellcasting, and more mediocre meals from Sif, and more naps for Hundith. In the late afternoon, Hundith finally sits back with a sigh and a yawn.

“Well?” Frigga says after a few moments of the Jotun simply getting comfortable in her chair. “What now?”

“Now we wait,” Hundith says, tipping her head back. “Bring me a drink, will you, girl? I have done what I can do, and we can only wait to see if he will wake.”

Sif returns from the kitchen with a drink for Hundith while Frigga kneels beside her son, searching his face, probably looking for a sign of a change.

“Ah ah ah,” warns Hundith, “mustn’t touch.”

“Why?” asks Frigga. “Will it interfere with your magicks?”

“Oh, not at all,” Hundith says with something like relish in her voice, and Sif has the sudden impression that she’s very much enjoying this conversation. “But haven’t you heard? The touch of a Jotun will burn an Asgardian.”

There’s a moment of silence where Frigga freezes, then flicks a glance over at Sif, who reads the message clearly:  _ let me handle this _ .

“What do you mean?” asks the queen—technically not a denial. A denial, after all, would be a lie.

“Exactly what I said,” smirks Hundith. “You know the Jotun cold will burn Asgardian skin.”

“What gave you the idea that we are Asgardian?” Frigga asks carefully.

“Oh, I’d have to say . . . the fact that you are Asgardian.” She grins. “I’m blind, not stupid.”

Frigga and Sif exchange a look.

“Here, I’ll end the charade now,” says Hundith. “Girl, are you Asgardian?”

A direct question: if Sif tries to deny it, Hundith will sense the lie.

“Mistress healer,” Frigga tries, “I know not what we have done to anger you—”

“You have a golden tongue, lady. Which is why I prefer to have the girl speak. She is not so talented that way; I’ll get the truth from her. Girl, are you Asgardian?”

Sif looks at Frigga, who looks helplessly around a moment, then nods. So Sif tells the truth. “Yes.”

“Finally, some honesty around here! Why the secrecy?”

Again, Frigga can only helplessly nod. “We know we’re not welcome here,” says Sif. “As per the treaty.”

“Ah yes, the treaty,” says Hundith, leaning back in her chair with a smirk crossing her face. “No doubt Laufey would offer a reward for anyone who reported Asgardians sneaking into Jotunheim, eh? A woman could make herself a lot of money that way.”

Sif spreads her feet into a fighting stance and puts one hand on the hilt of her dagger—then jumps in surprise as Hundith roars with laughter. “Stand down, little warrior girl!” she commands, and Sif realizes her instructor is right when he says she needs to work on stealth and silence. “If I was really going to report you, don’t you think Laufey’s forces would be here already? They would have had all night and all day to travel.”

Sif blinks. “Then, for goodness’ sake, why—”

“Ah, let an old woman have her fun, will you? You have no idea how boring it gets out here when my sons are away trading. If I can stir up a bit of mayhem, you can bet I will, just to entertain myself.”

Hundith calls it “fun”; Sif calls it “blinding panic that leaves her heart racing.”

Frigga has risen to her feet and has one hand on a dagger hidden at her waistband. “You’ll understand,” she says with dignity, “if we are still suspicious. Why wouldn’t you report us to Laufey?”

Hundith gives a loud snort. “King Laufey is a—” And here the universal translator cuts out briefly; in Sif’s experience, this often happens with very colloquial words. But even with no translation, Hundith’s tone makes the meaning clear.

“Truly?” Sif asks. “You think that?”

Hundith leans back with a sigh. “Girl, I was old when Laufey started that war, and I’m older now. I have no patience for his war games and his anger. His foolish campaign against Odin Allfather led to death and destruction throughout our lands; even in the beginning, there were some who opposed him and refused to fight in his war. And once we saw what the war cost us, and what it turned Jotunheim into—” she gestures vaguely at the window— “suffice to say that there are many, those of us on this side of Jotunheim, who wouldn’t lift a finger to help Laufey if he were to collapse on our doorstep.”

“Ah,” says Sif softly. She doesn’t have Hundith’s gift for detecting liars, but she rather thinks she believes the old giantess.

“Besides,” Hundith says with a sharp grin, “the reward for turning trespassers in is tiny. And if I reported you, the soldiers who responded would take away all your possessions too, including the frankly absurd amount of gold you’re going to pay me to heal your boy. You see, Asgardian gold spends the same as Jotun gold. Or at least it will as soon as I bewitch it so no one can trace its origins.”

“I already did that,” says Frigga softly.

“Ha! I knew I liked you, lady.” And Hundith leans forward with a conspiratorial air, as though confessing a secret. “I am far more loyal to my own comfort than I am to my king. And your gold is going to fix my roof, and buy me better food, a more comfortable bed, and perhaps a larger fireplace.” She sighs. “The older I get, the colder these Jotunheim winters become. It's true what they say, the fifth millennium is the hardest.”

Frigga’s expression of fear has been slowly turning into reluctant hope; Sif can tell she’s starting to believe Hundith. “Perhaps a reclining chair, to place before the fire,” she suggests. “I have one at home. Gives great comfort to the back.”

“You have excellent taste,” says Hundith, and hesitates. And when she speaks, gone is the mischievous, cantankerous old woman who stirs up trouble for her own amusement. “You must have excellent taste,” she adds quietly, “to love a Jotun as your own child.”

“I do,” murmurs Frigga fervently.

“I’d ask how he ended up in your care, but the truth is that I don’t want to know. Knowledge is power, and that’s dangerous. It is enough that he was a lucky child, to get off Jotunheim. To find people who love him, and can afford to care for him, and would risk their lives coming to a hostile realm to have him healed.”

“We have tried to make him happy. And keep him safe.”

Hundith sighs. “If only you had gotten him to me sooner! We could be more sure now that he’ll wake. Instead . . .”

Frigga frowns. “You think he might not wake?”

Hundith gives her a sympathetic look, but Sif, standing closer, can see the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Is this you stirring up drama to amuse yourself again?” she demands. “Because that is not funny.”

Hundith throws her head back and laughs, and Frigga frowns while Sif shakes her head. “Not funny at all.” But she bites back a smile, despite herself.

“Sorry, bit insensitive of me. Yes, he’ll wake up any minute, good as new.” She hesitates. “That’s an exaggeration. He’ll be moving slowly for a while. But he’ll survive.”

“Truly?” whispers Frigga in joy, and Hundith nods.

But she’s not quite done stirring up trouble. “But you know, lady, this means you have a decision coming up.”

Frigga’s grim face says she does know.

“What will you tell him? About why you’re here? Will you explain why the only being who could heal him was a Jotun? An expert in healing other Jotuns?”

“If he figures it out, I will not keep it from him.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Frigga’s silence is answer enough, and Hundith shakes her head. “Don’t need second sight to see that’s going to end badly. You tell him the truth, you have a chance to help him understand your reasons. You let him figure it out on his own . . .”

She trails off ominously, but Frigga is unmoved. “We have our reasons for keeping it from him.”

“Then your reasons are wrong,” says Hundith. “Tell her, girl.”

Sif jumps at being addressed, and looks between her beloved queen and this near stranger . . . and has to side with the stranger. She’s been turning all of this over in the back of her mind since she learned the truth, and has come to an inescapable conclusion. “She’s right,” she says a bit apologetically to the queen. “He’s so clever; there’s no way he won’t find out eventually. And when he does, we both know he won’t take it well. It is his nature to assume the worst, especially when it comes to how other people think of him. If he learns you’ve hidden the truth about his past, he’ll assume you’re ashamed of him. That you . . . think him a monster.” A pang of shame courses through her as she realizes she reacted in exactly the way that would hurt Loki deeply. “And you know when he gets angry, he can hold onto that for a long, long time.”

Frigga frowns, and Sif can sense that she sees the truth of what’s being said. “But his father . . .”

“Isn’t here,” says Hundith. “But your boy is. So unless you have a way to get him home to Asgard in the next hour . . .”

But Frigga shakes her head. “Our means of getting home is not easy on the body. I worry it could undo your fine work. He needs more recovery time.”

The giantess opens her mouth, then pauses and tilts her head, as though listening to something Sif can’t hear. “Too late now,” she says, and struggles to her feet. “He’s waking.”

She shuffles away to the front door while Frigga drops to her knees beside the cot and Sif stands watch on the other side. Part of her would like to join Frigga on the floor, to smooth down his blankets and stroke his hair and hope to be the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes, but it’s not her place, not really. He’s a friend, and an estranged one at that, and not anything more, and she has no right to wait at his bedside like a . . . anyway.

He stirs for the first time in six days, his blue brow furrowing, and then there’s silence, while Sif holds her breath. It occurs to her, not for the first time, that he might not take it well that she knew the truth before he did—that she knows the truth at all. She knows Loki, knows his pride and his vanity and his insecurity. And she knows she’d be very uncomfortable, were she in his position, to have an outsider know such a potentially damaging piece of information.

But what can she do? Hide? Pretend she never saw his Jotun form? Anyway it’s too late now. 

Loki opens his eyes.

And Sif exhales sharply and falls to her knees.

Because those eyes? They’re red; they look nothing like Aesir eyes. And yet he still looks like Loki, the Loki she knows and loves. And the stress of the last six days slides from her shoulders like a snow drift off a roof, and she realizes that she never let herself think about how much she feared she’d never see those eyes open again, and suddenly it matters far less what color they are. In that moment she finally understands what Frigga said: Loki has always been her friend, and he has always been Jotun. All that’s changed is what Sif knows.

All this has passed through her mind in the moment before her knees hit the floor, and at the sound, Loki glances over at her. Instantly his color changes, back to the pale peach of Aesir skin, back to the blue-green eyes she’s accustomed to seeing. “Sif?” His voice is rusty with disuse.

And Sif exhales again, and finds herself slumping forward with relief, to rest her forehead against his upper arm.

“What—” she hears him say, and then, “Mother?”

Sif hears the tears in the queen’s voice when she responds. “It is good to see you awake, my son.”

“What—” he says again, and then in tones of realization, “The fire demon. What happened?”

“It was stopped. Everyone survived. It was you who was most badly hurt.”

And Sif lifts her head to see Frigga stroking Loki’s hair with trembling hands. He smiles up at his mother, and then his gaze darts uncertainly over at Sif. “It must have been a heroic fall,” he says, and she knows him well enough to hear the false bravado in his voice, “for the lady Sif to keep vigil at my bedside.”

Sif forces herself to sit up, to look at his face, to not bite her lip. “The lady Sif,” she says steadily, “is pleased to see you awake.”

Again he glances at her but can’t seem to meet her eye for longer than a moment. There’s an uncertainty, almost an embarrassment, to his movements that she can’t reconcile with the cocky, silver-tongued god of mischief that she knows.

Instead he looks at his mother and asks the question that she has surely been dreading: “Where are we?”

Frigga stands immediately. “There is much to explain, my son. But first, we must get some sustenance into you; you’ve had but little these days that you’ve been unconscious.”

She walks to the kitchen, out of Loki’s eyeline, and he can do nothing but look back at Sif with confusion in his eyes. “We brought you somewhere to heal,” she says. “We’re safe. But your mother’s right, you should eat something before we tire you out with long explanations.”

He frowns.

“I know,” she says, “but just a little more patience.” His expression twists to show exactly what he thinks of patience, and that look is so like him that she feels a rush of relief and affection wash over her. “I’m so glad you’re all right,” she says, and quite without meaning to she finds herself taking his near hand in hers and bringing it up to press a kiss to his knuckles.

Loki stares at her.

She stares back.

And drops his hand quickly as she hears Frigga’s footsteps returning from the kitchen. “Oh, dear,” says the queen, “I forgot the water. Could you fetch it?”

Sif is only too glad to have a reason to leave. She takes a moment in the kitchen to still her pounding heart and let some of the color fade from her cheeks. And then she finds the water and walks with all the dignity she can muster back into the main room.

Frigga has propped Loki up on two pillows and is helping him drink from a bowl of broth. When Sif walks into his eyeline, he starts a little, and a bit of broth spills onto his blanket, and it’s such a small thing but she’s not surprised that Loki’s expression is burning with embarrassment. He did always hate to be seen at any sort of disadvantage.

(Not that she can really hold that against him; she’s the same way.)

And again she fears that he will be unhappy that she knows the truth.

Perhaps Frigga’s thoughts are going down the same path, because she gives Sif a small, grim smile. “Perhaps you could give us a few minutes,” she says. “Give me a chance to answer his questions.”

Sif raises a questioning eyebrow, and Frigga gives her a tiny, resigned nod. She’s telling him, then, and Sif is only too ready to excuse herself, knowing that the only thing that could make this conversation worse for Loki would be to have an audience. So she nods at the queen with what she hopes is an encouraging expression, and she sets her hand on Loki’s shoulder just to remind herself that he’s alive, and excuses herself from the room.

. . . . . .

She finds Hundith seated on a rough-hewn bench outside, her face upturned to catch the late afternoon’s weak rays of sunshine.

“Perhaps I’m becoming more accustomed to Jotun weather,” Sif says as she seats herself next to her, supposing that Frigga’s rules about speaking no longer apply now that Hundith knows the truth. “This isn’t so bad right here.”

Hundith snorts. “I put a warming spell over the whole lot, for you Asgardians’ sakes.”

“Then again I could be wrong.”

A grin twists those grayish lips, and the pair falls into silence. “Is she telling him?” Hundith asks after a moment.

“She’s answering his questions about how we got here. I’m not sure how much she’ll say.”

Hundith nods slowly. “I’m sure you think I’m a terribly nosy old woman. But I raised seven sons, and I know how they’d react if they learned I kept such a secret from them.”

A bit nosy, yes, but Sif is sincere when she replies, “You saved his life and kept us a secret. I think you could say a great deal before we’d be angry with you.”

Her companion smiles, and in the silence that follows, they hear Loki’s voice from inside, very clear and rather loud: “What?”

Sif grimaces. “Perhaps she’s telling him everything.”

And again from inside: “What?”

“Please excuse me,” Sif says, standing from her seat. “I don’t mean to abandon you, but I believe if our friendship is to survive this, I can’t overhear this conversation.”

Hundith heaves a great, gusty sigh. “You young people and your morals. Now I feel guilty eavesdropping.” She struggles into a standing position. “Come on, girl, I’ll make you feed my animals.”

And Sif fights down a laugh and follows the old giantess into the barn.

“So how long have you known him?” Hundith asks as Sif fills the troughs with feed.

“Oh, nearly longer than I can remember. He and I and his brother have been close friends since we were children.”

Hundith tilts her head. “Friends? That’s all you are?”

For a moment Sif is deeply grateful that Hundith can’t see her blush. “Yes, we have only ever been friends.”

Her companion hums thoughtfully in response.

Sif sighs. “But . . .”

“But?”

“He’s changed recently. He’s become more withdrawn; he spends less time with us. I’ve tried to bring him back, but he resists, and . . . well, he is grown enough to make up his own mind. If he no longer wants to be our friend, perhaps I ought to respect his decision.”

“And do you know why he’s withdrawn?”

This seems a very private thing to reveal, but then Sif knows she can’t lie to Hundith. “I have wondered if he feels overshadowed by his brother, who is really very impressive. Perhaps it’s easier for him to just stay away, and not be confronted by what makes him feel inadequate.”

Hundith nods. “So, this brother. Tall? Strong? Handsome?”

“All of the above.”

“Has he ever caught your eye?”

Leave it to this strangely insightful Jotun to find the deepest feelings of Sif’s heart. 

“The thought has crossed my mind,” she admits. “He’s a powerful warrior and we get along so well, and . . . the thought has crossed my mind.” What she does not add is: the thought has crossed her mind every so often since they were young, but it’s only been lately, when Loki’s spent so little time with them and paid her so little attention, that she’s given Thor any serious thought. She could see herself falling in love with Thor. But only if his brother continues to pull away from her.

“Will you pursue him?”

“Now you are getting nosy.”

Hundith shrugs. “Perhaps another reason the boy feels inferior to his brother is that the brother is more popular with young ladies. That kind of jealousy is as old as time.”

An interesting theory, but she’s never known Thor and Loki to be interested in the same girl. In fact she’s never known Loki to show interest in anyone . . . and she’s certainly been watching closely, waiting to see who finally earns the younger prince’s affections.

Some tiny part of her has long been dreading the day when Loki announces he’s betrothed. They’re old enough to marry and start families now; Volstagg married a few decades ago, and Hogun very nearly married last year until his intended broke off the engagement. And Loki is a prince; he won’t be allowed to remain single all his life. So Sif has long known that someday she’ll have to watch him marry some beautiful Asgardian . . . or perhaps some foreign princess, part of a peace treaty . . . but someone. Someone other than good old Sif, strong and practical and unfeminine, just one of the boys, who has never once managed to catch the younger prince’s eye.

Not that she wants to, of course; her first duty is to Asgard. She has no interest in laying down her sword to become some pampered princess, never allowed onto the battlefield, or even the sparring grounds. She does not want to give up who she is just to become someone’s wife.

But maybe Loki wouldn’t ask her to give anything up.

“Pardon me,” she says, suddenly realizing that she has been letting her thoughts stray down forbidden paths for far too long. “I was lost in thought. It is certainly possible that this was one of his reasons.”

“Very possible,” Hundith murmurs.

They emerge from the barn a few minutes later, just in time to see Loki storming out of the house—as much storming as he can do in his weak state, anyway—still in his Asgardian state, still dressed in nothing but his breeches with his feet and torso bare. There are tears in his eyes and anguish writ large on his countenance, but when his gaze falls on Sif, his expression falls even further, and shame washes over his face. Without a word, he turns away and starts making his slow way to the gate, while Frigga comes to the door and watches him with tears dripping gently from her chin.

“Is that him making all that racket?” Hundith demands, and when Sif affirms that it is, the old woman calls, “Where do you think you’re running off to, boy? That’s a solid day of spellcasting right there; don’t you dare go tromping through the woods and ruin it. You’ll tear your innards all up again.”

Loki turns and stares at her. “I . . . need to be alone.”

“Then take the house,” Hundith suggests. “We’ll stay out here.”

“Oh, Hundith, we’ve already inconvenienced you enough,” says Sif. “We can’t kick you out of your house all day.”

“But this one needs bed rest. At least until the morning, boy, you hear me?”

Loki stares at Sif, baffled, and then at Hundith, and then back at his mother, and then he lifts his arms into some strange gesture. It must be magic, and Hundith must feel it, because she says “Don’t be a fool, boy, you need to rest.”

“Loki, please,” says Frigga, and Loki bends two fingers and vanishes.

“Stubborn fool,” sighs Hundith. “Still, if he insists on going off to be alone, better that he spirit himself away than go stomping through the woods.”

Sif is not comforted. “But where has he gone?”

“He’s close,” Hundith assures her. “I can sense him.”

“I too,” sighs Frigga.

“So he didn’t take the news well?” Hundith asks.

Frigga closes her eyes briefly; Sif recognizes this move as her bid to get her emotions under control. “He said he was the monster that parents tell their children about at night,” she says, then grimaces. “No offense meant, lady healer.”

“Eh, I think a Jotun might say the same thing, if they found out they were truly Aesir.”

Frigga sighs. “He has long felt my husband favors our other son. And now he feels that he knows why.”

“Does he?” Hundith asks bluntly. “Favor the other son?”

Frigga only sighs again, but Sif, now that the thought has been put into her head, has to admit that she can see where Loki would get that idea. The Allfather has always been different with Thor than he is with Loki; Sif always assumed it was because Thor would be king one day and needed extra attention, but she can see how that would be little comfort for a son feeling neglected by his father.

“I need to occupy myself,” Frigga says after a moment. “I will clean the kitchen.”

The Allmother cleaning a frost giant’s kitchen: this has truly been the strangest few days of Sif’s life.

Frigga goes inside, and Hundith, with her stick, taps her way back to the bench from earlier. “Where are you at, girl?”

“Here,” says Sif, and the giantess’s gaze turns in the direction of her voice.

“So tell me,” the healer says, “it bother you that your boy’s a frost giant?”

Sif takes a moment to consider this. “It did, when I first found out,” she admits. “That he was of the race that was our greatest enemy, that I had been raised to fear and hate. That his parents, two people I admire, had lied to all of us for so long.”

“And now?”

This requires a little more thought. Finally, she says, “When he opened his eyes—when I knew he would live—suddenly the truth of his birth seemed not to matter as much as it did before.” And then she gives the cantankerous old giantess a little smile, though she knows she won’t see it. “And I suppose I’ve learned that not all frost giants are bad.”

Hundith smiles at that. And then she slaps her hands decisively down on her thighs. “Good. So go after him.”

Sif blinks. “Go after him?”

“Go after him,” the healer confirms. “He doesn’t want to speak to his mother at the moment, and that’s understandable. But you’d have better luck. You weren’t keeping this secret from him, after all.”

Sif grimaces. “I don’t know that he wants company right now.”

“He might think not,” Hundith agrees. “But he needs it.” And then she grins. “Partly because he very much needs someone to tell him he can’t stay out in the open overnight. These woods are not friendly, not even to a Jotun, and he’s not in fighting shape.” When Sif doesn’t react, Hundith’s expression turns pointed. “I’m quite serious. I don’t want him eaten after all my hard work.”

“Oh. Yes, I see the wisdom in that.”

“Better for him to spend the night here, where I have wards set up.”

“But how do I—”

“He’s at the waterfall,” she says, and explains how to get there. “Don’t worry,” is her parting statement. “You’ll be quite safe until full dark.”

And with that cheerful statement ringing in her ears, Sif sets off to find Loki.

. . . . . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I have gotten this far in the story and failed to credit [CallistoNicol,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallistoNicol/pseuds/CallistoNicol) who has become my default beta reader in that I send her things I've written and demand that she tell me whether they suck. Thanks to her for her encouraging comments. And a gentle nudge to her to finish and post her Sifki modern AU; I want to see them happily eating Twinkie pie together.

. . . . . .

It takes fifteen minutes to hike to the waterfall. Sif doesn’t know if it’s her finely honed warrior instincts, or simply the power of suggestion, but she does get the sense that these woods are full of wild and dangerous things—the sort of place Thor would have a field day in. But the sun is still shining, and for the moment, all is peaceful as Sif makes her way through the woods.

“Peaceful” is not, however, the word that she would use to describe the figure that she finds down by the waterfall. Loki is in his Jotun form, pacing to and fro in an agitated manner, stopping every now and then to look at his reflection in the river, or to grimace down at his hands, or to run his fingertips along the pattern of ridges on his face and bare chest.

It feels like a very private moment, and she doesn’t like to spy, so she deliberately brings her foot down hard on a dry branch. He jumps and turns to look, and when their eyes meet, his coloring shifts rapidly and he is Aesir again.

“Sif,” he says in a strangled voice. “It’s you. Of course it had to be you.”

Sif chooses to believe that statement isn’t as insulting as it sounds. “You needn’t shift for my sake,” she says as she steps farther into the clearing. “I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t  _ mind _ it?” he asks in disbelief, his face screwed up in a sort of distress she’s never seen on him. “Of course you mind it! I’m a monster! I’m a . . . a beast.”

“You are most certainly not a monster,” she says firmly, finding that her last, lingering shred of unease about his true identity has vanished in the face of her need to comfort her distressed friend. “You are my friend. You are Loki Odinson.”

“Am I?” he demands, his voice growing louder, and in an instant he’s Jotun again. “Or am I Laufeyson? Look at this! Look at me! I’m Asgard’s great enemy. I was born of a race of evil and brutal barbarians.”

A memory comes into her mind, then, of the time the child Loki did a spell awry and gave himself fish scales, and his magic tutor forced him to endure a full day in that form, to teach him a lesson. She remembers how Loki went around the palace, pointing out to everyone he passed that he had fish scales—not because he was proud of it, but because if he pointed out what was wrong with him first, people had less ammunition to tease him later. She can see the same reasoning at work here: if he points out he’s a monster first . . .

“You are none of those things,” she insists. “You are clever and talented. You’re a powerful sorcerer. You are the best storyteller of any of us. You make people laugh.”

“Look at this!” he shouts, and flings his hands down in a sharp gesture. Instantly his blue arms are covered in ice that tapers to a point, like a spear or sword. She’s heard tales of this, and how the Jotuns never needed weapons to fight, for they could create their own.

“What do you call this, if not monstrous?” he demands, and twists his arms. Instantly shards of ice shoot up from the ground on either side of him, taller than his head. The effect is certainly alarming.

“You always were a quick study,” she murmurs.

“I am the monster we used to tell ghost stories of!” he shouts, and then suddenly he is smiling, jagged-edged and brittle. “Remember the one Thor used to tell, when he wanted us to leave him alone? ‘In a deep cold cave by the edge of the sea, there is a frost giant that only comes out to eat wicked girls and boys . . .’”

“We were children,” she says. “We were young. We were stupid. And Thor, much though I love him, is usually the stupidest of us all.”

That startles him into dropping his arms, and the ice quickly melts around him. By the time his hands hit his sides, they are once again the pale peach of Asgardian skin. He looks very young, suddenly, standing there with his shoulders slumped and his head bowed and his feet bare (they’re starting to look red, and she wonders how her half-dressed friend can bear this cold when he’s not in his Jotun form), and her heart aches for him.

So she crosses to a large flat boulder and seats herself on it; it’s quite cold, but if it makes her look more approachable, she’s willing to suffer. “Talk to me.”

“The great warrior Sif,” Loki says, clearly trying to muster a mocking tone, “willingly talking about feelings?” But there’s little heat in it, and Sif is suddenly put in mind of a creature that’s been struggling all day with a thorn in its paw, lashing out half-heartedly at any who come too near its wound.

So she just gives him a steady look. “Yes, and this isn’t likely to happen again, so you should take advantage of it while you can.”

Loki looks at her, and then he looks down, and then he sits on a rock of his own, some distance away. She wishes he’d sat closer, maybe shared her rock with her. She wishes that he was within arm’s reach. But she understands the sentiment that would keep him away.

“Well, I suppose it makes sense why he always favored Thor,” he says finally, his voice dripping with disdain. “And why he’s going to make him the heir. He can’t have a frost giant on the throne of Asgard, now can he?”

He says the last part with venom in his tone, and Sif sighs and shakes her head. “Thor’s older than you,” she says mildly. “He was always going to be king. No matter what you were.”

Loki shakes his head. “But you don’t know what Father was like growing up. He would always tell us, ‘Only one of you can inherit the throne, but you were both born to be kings.’ I thought he was saying that maybe if I tried hard enough, I could prove myself and he would . . .” He breaks off, shaking his head in bitter self-recrimination. “Turns out all he was doing was taunting me with the knowledge that I was in line for two thrones but I was never going to get either of them.”

Sif tilts her head, examining her old friend. “I never knew you wanted so much to be king.”

“I don’t!” says Loki, then hesitates. “I do. I just . . .” He pauses a long, long time, but Sif has learned patience over the years. Finally he admits, “If I were king, people would respect me.” Another long pause, and then: “My father and brother would respect me. I would finally know that I was good enough for my father. That I was Thor’s equal.”

“You think people don’t respect you now?”

“I’m not a fool, Sif. I know what people say about me. I’m the weaker son, the shifty, unpredictable, secretive one. I’m the son who’s no good in a fight because I spent all my time learning magic, like a woman.”

“What’s wrong with being like a woman?” Sif asks, a bit rhetorically, and Loki ignores her.

“That’s what I put up with.” His voice is sharp. “All the time. From everyone.”

“I know. And when I hear it, I tell them the same thing I’m telling you now: anyone who doesn’t see the value of your mind, or the contribution your magic makes in battle, is an idiot.” She leans forward. “And more importantly, we already have a Thor. We don’t need another one.” And then she adds wryly, “If we had a second Thor, the entirety of Asgard might have been destroyed by fire demons, instead of just part.”

Though he’s clearly trying to hide it, a tiny smile steals across Loki’s face.

“And what he needs is you by his side. Not another brash warrior, but a counselor, a guide. Like Tyr and Heimdall and your mother are to Odin. Someone intelligent and cautious who thinks deeply and weighs all the outcomes before jumping into decisions. And a powerful sorcerer, like your mother, who can use magic to aid the kingdom.” And she repeats, “We need you, Loki, just as you are. This kingdom needs you, and your family needs you.”

For a moment she thinks she’s gotten through his shell of self-loathing, but then that scowl drops back over his face like an iron mask. “Maybe they needed Loki Odinson,” he says. “Maybe. But they certainly don’t need Loki Laufeyson, the frost giant.”

Sif closes her eyes for a moment, searching for the right words. “All right,” she says, “yes, you’re a frost giant.”

He blinks.

“You were born to a realm, to a race, to a king, that once tried to destroy Asgard. But that was eight hundred years ago. Haven’t you heard? We have peace now.”

“The people of Asgard don’t—”

“As much as I love the people of Asgard,” says Sif, “they can be stubborn, proud fools, who hold onto things too long. But if they knew what I know, they’d know not all their prejudices are accurate. Because if there’s anything I’ve learned this week, it’s that you can’t judge a person based on the circumstances of their birth.” She hesitates, looking for just the right words. “There have been evil Aesir; think of Cul, or the Enchantress. And I now know two Jotuns I admire very much.”

Loki examines her a long moment. “You’re fond of that healer,” he observes.

“I admit I have become so. She makes me laugh. Even if she is prone to giving me panic attacks to amuse herself.”  


"All right, she's not barbaric. But that doesn't change what the rest of the Jotuns are like. Violent, brutal . . ."

And Sif's brow furrows as a new thought occurs to her. "So we think, for so they are in battle. But Loki, so am I, in battle. So is your brother. Perhaps the frost giants do have a great capacity for violence, but so do we all. And do you think me a monster?"

He stares, clearly caught entirely off-guard by this argument. Finally, he answers quietly: "No."

"You see, then."

There’s a moment of silence, and then Loki drops his head into his hands.

“No one expects you to come to terms with all of this now,” says Sif. “I know you have a great deal to think about. But it’s important that you know that it doesn’t matter to your mother. She loves you just the way you are. And so do I.”

And then she freezes. Did she just say that out loud? She curses her mouth for running away with her like this, and blurting something that is not even true.

Probably.

Except that maybe it is, a bit. But she did not mean to say it . . . except that maybe she did, a bit. And she can’t decide which frightens her more: the idea of Loki rejecting her confession, or the idea of him being pleased with it.

But he hasn’t reacted yet, his head still dropped into his hands, and it’s not too late to backpedal. “So,” she says in what she hopes is a controlled, placid voice, “I'm asking you as friend—” she puts just the tiniest bit of emphasis on that word— “please just . . . don’t do anything rash. Take some time to really consider your next actions.”

He finally does look up at her then, and she can’t tell her if her backpedaling worked, because his expression is unreadable. “Wise advice.”

But she barely hears him, because he can no longer suppress his shivers and his lips are starting to turn blue, and she curses herself for not thinking to offer him her furs. “You’re freezing,” she says, climbing off her rock with some half-formed intention of giving him her coat—until she remembers. “You should shift.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Then come back to the house,” she says, and then finally remembers her reason for coming out here. “You’ll need to do so soon; Hundith says you can’t spend the night in the open or you’ll be eaten by . . . whatever lives out here.”

Loki’s eyebrows lift.

“So please come back to the house,” she entreats. “You can ignore us all night if you like, but . . . we just got you back. We don’t want to lose you to the cold, or wild animals.” Her expression softens. “Or anything else.”

Loki looks at her a long time, and then he sighs. “I suppose I don’t want to be eaten either. And I suppose I’m cold.” He stands from his rock and hesitates. “Do you want me to take you back with me?”

It’s a long walk back, so she is happy to agree. But then she remembers something: transportation spells are easiest when the caster is touching the things he wants to transport, and harder when the things are farther away. And Loki was nearly dead this morning. So she walks over to him and takes his hand.

“So you don’t tire yourself out in the casting,” she explains quickly, and it’s true, but there’s another reason, hiding beneath that one: she hopes that if he sees she’s not afraid to touch him, he might be less convinced that he’s a monster. (And there’s another reason, even deeper than that: she just so rarely gets a chance to touch him.)

His skin is smooth (she is suddenly very aware of her own calluses) and very cold; his hand reflexively tightens around hers, and all his usual skill at keeping his true feelings hidden can’t quite keep the confusion from his eyes. But his shivering is growing worse, and that takes precedence right now: it would be a terrible ending to their journey if Loki survived his wounds but was killed by the cold.

“Let’s go get you warm.”

. . . . . .

By the time they reappear at Hundith’s house, Loki’s shivers have grown violent, and although the warming spell the giantess cast for them helps, Sif’s getting worried. “Come on,” she says, tugging on the hand she currently holds to pull him into the building.

Hundith is sitting by the fire, but she quickly relinquishes her chair when Sif explains they need to get Loki warm. “Idiot boy,” she grumbles, getting out of the way so Sif can push him into the seat. “You know you’re a frost giant, right? The Jotunheim climate’ll kill an Aesir quick if he starts wandering around without proper gear. But if you’d just shift . . .”

Sif is occupied with building up the fire higher, but she glances back to see that Loki is shooting uncomfortable glances over at Hundith; when he catches Sif looking at him, he frowns and burrows down deeper into the chair. “I was fine.”

Footsteps sound behind them, and Frigga appears in the doorway to the kitchen, her face filled with a kind of anguished hope; her shoulders slump in relief when she sees Loki is back. She looks at him, and then at Sif, and then back at her son; she must sense that he needs a bit of space right now, because she simply says, “Welcome back. There’s dinner, if anyone’s hungry.”

Sif drags the chairs from the kitchen so they can eat around the fire, while Frigga serves up dishes of the stew she’s pulled together. Loki accepts a bowl from his mother without meeting her eyes, and she looks at him helplessly a moment, and then moves to serve Hundith.

And that’s how the rest of the evening goes; the three women clean the mess from dinner and talk in Hundith’s main room while Loki stares broodingly into the fire and says nothing. When full dark has fallen and they’ve all pulled near Loki’s fireplace seat to stay warm, Hundith suggests, in a very innocent tone, that she might tell some Jotun folk tales.

She wants to expose Loki to his heritage, Sif realizes; perhaps he’ll see Jotuns are not mere savages. It’s an excellent idea, she can see from Frigga’s glance at Loki that she’s realized the value of it too. So they sit back while Hundith tells them of the birth of Ymir from the river Élivágar, and how Bergelmir and his wife survived the flood, and the tale of the hunter Blen who was lost in the ice and fed three nights by falling stars. Loki says nothing, but it’s clear he’s listening, from the way he shifts his position every now and then.

Frigga responds with tales Sif’s heard all her life: the creation story of Búri being licked from the ice by the cow Auðumbla; the maiden Asta and the talking bird; the battle of Sigurd and the dragon. Then she hesitates, and in a casual tone, tells the tale of Borr, son of Búri, who married the frost giantess Bestla. Sif looks sharply at the queen, but it’s hard to tell what, if anything, she means by the story.

Either way, Sif carefully does not look at Loki.

. . . . . .

That night Loki sleeps in the cot that served as his sickbed, while Frigga and Sif again put their bedrolls on the ground on either side of him. Again Frigga falls asleep quickly, but Sif lays awake a long time, unable to sleep. Which is how she knows that Loki does the same, and that when they’ve been laying there a few hours, he gets up and walks outside, taking a lantern with him.

He could be going to relieve himself, so Sif does nothing. But when he’s been gone too long, she finally gets up and follows him, one part of her worried he’s fallen afoul of some creature of the Jotun night, another part worried that he left in anger and isn’t coming back. (Where he’d go on the far side of Jotunheim, she has no idea. But fear is not always rational.)

She finds him on the bench outside, gazing up at the unfamiliar configuration of stars overhead. At least he’s wearing boots and a shirt this time, but still, a Jotunheim night is not a friendly thing.

“Are you determined to catch your death of cold?” she asks, and he jumps about a foot in the air.

He casts a rueful, amused glance at her, visible in the light from the lantern, and for a moment things feel . . . normal. But then he sighs. “I needed space. To think.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

“I hardly know what I want anymore. How can I, when I don’t know who I am?”

“I know who you are,” she says. “Your mother knows who you are. You should ask one of us.”

That earns her another rueful smile. Then there’s silence, and then he asks her a question that makes her eyes widen. “What was your first thought, when you learned the truth?”

Perhaps the kind thing to do would be to lie, but Sif’s not particularly talented at lying, and she doesn’t approve of it unless it’s quite necessary. Besides, if anyone could see through a deception, it would undoubtedly be the god of lies. So she invites herself onto the bench next to him—he grows quite still and is clearly trying to avoid touching her leg with his—and answers honestly. “I was afraid; I had heard all my life that frost giants were malicious and savage.” She considers a moment. “I suppose I wasn’t concerned that you would suddenly grow violent and barbaric; I know you too well for that. I suppose I really feared that you would choose to ally yourself with the people of your birth, and become an enemy of Asgard.” She looks over at him, at his wide eyes pale blue in the moonlight. “But that was only at first.”

“What changed?”

“Your mother talked to me. She reminded me that I know you. She said that you have always been my friend, and you have always been a Jotun; all that changed is what I know. And I realized that it was true; I may have a different understanding of you now, but your heart and your mind—those haven’t changed.”

He looks down at his hands. “Everyone will hate me, if they know the truth.”

“Some people would react badly,” she agrees. “But some would come to the same conclusion I did. But Loki, I made this oath to Frigga and I make it to you know: I will not tell anyone of this, if you would rather I remain silent. This is a personal matter, and it can be kept a personal matter, if that is what you choose.”

He looks over at her with a look she can’t interpret. “Stalwart Sif, always so loyal.”

“To the royal family? Forever. To my friends? Even longer.” Even if “friendly” is not precisely the word she’d use to describe her feelings toward him right now. These are the moments when she finds herself the most drawn to him: when they are alone, somewhere quiet, and he has dropped his masks. There is usually some part he is playing, some point he is trying to prove, so these moments when she sees into his heart are few and far between. She wishes he could see that this is the best version of him: sensitive, thoughtful, honest, open. She wishes he didn’t feel he had so much to prove. Though she understands why he does.

“I appreciate your discretion, milady.”

“Always,” she says, and unthinkingly pats his hands comfortably with one of hers. And then she pauses, then frowns, then picks up his hand to hold between both of hers. “Loki, you’re freezing. Please come inside.”

He shakes his head. “I need to think,” he says, and she hopes she’s not imagining the reluctance in his voice when he says “You’re getting cold too; you should go inside.” His words are belied by the fact that he wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes gently.

Immediately she interlaces their fingers. “If you intend to stay out here and freeze, then so shall I,” she declares, but he shakes his head.

“Normally I would never refuse such lovely company—" apparently he didn’t leave his silver tongue in Asgard— “but I really would prefer to be alone.”

“I really would prefer you not freeze to death,” she retorts. “Which of us, do you suppose, will get our wish tonight?”

Loki hesitates, then grimaces. “If I shift into my . . . other form, to stay warm, will that satisfy you?”

Sif agrees to this, and Loki releases her hand (was he reluctant to do so? The movement seems reluctant and Sif finds that rather gratifying) as she stands up. “I’ll wait until you’re inside to shift,” he says, and his voice almost sounds natural, like a person might almost be convinced that it doesn’t put a strain on him to think about shifting to his natural form.

And that hurts her heart, and is the reason that she bends over to drop a kiss on the top of his head. “Do as you like,” she says. “But let me tell you again: I don’t mind it. I grew quite accustomed to that face while I watched them heal you.”

He’s putting up defensive walls again; she can see them in his eyes. “One may grow accustomed to a great many distasteful things, given a long enough exposure to them.”

“But this was not distasteful,” she says, “for there was something about it that I liked very much.” She waits until he has grown fidgety, until he has finally brought himself to meet her eyes again and ask what it was that she liked. And then she smiles. “I liked it,” she says, “for it looked like Loki.” And she strides away.

Only to be brought up short when he calls her name softly. She turns to see him Jotun, the blue skin closer to white in the moonlight, the eyes shadowed, but the ridges across his face undeniable. “You don’t mind it?”

And she is glad that she can honestly give him the answer he needs to hear. “I don’t mind it,” she confirms. “Indeed, I may come to like it.”

Loki smiles, embarrassed and pleased: the first time she’s seen a positive emotion on his Jotun face. And she too is grinning as she goes inside and goes back to bed.

. . . . . .

She falls asleep quickly, so she doesn’t know when Loki comes back in. But when she wakes in the morning, startled by a log on the fire popping loudly, he is standing before the fireplace, once more in his Asgardian form, warming his hands over the flames.

The noise has woken Frigga as well; she blinks blearily at the cot, and then over at the fireplace, and her face brightens into a relieved smile.

“Good morning,” she says carefully, and looks more relieved still when he says it back in a relatively normal tone.

She gets off her bedroll and crosses the room to where Loki stands, taking a moment to nod kindly at Sif, still curled up in her bed, exhausted from her partly sleepless night.

“I bed your forgiveness,” Frigga says when she reaches him. “Your father and I thought we were doing what was best, but now I wonder if it was. I see now that it would seem as though we are ashamed of your Jotun background.”

Loki’s quiet a long moment. “I am not certain that I know what the best way to handle the situation is either. Though it distresses me to think that if I hadn’t been injured, you might have kept up this charade for the rest of my life.”

“I know,” Frigga says quietly. “Your father said he would prefer not to know the truth, were he in your shoes, and I decided that was a good enough argument. But I was wrong to feel that way. Especially given that you and your father are very different people.” She hesitates. “So . . . what now?”

Loki sighs, looking away from her into the fire, and it occurs to Sif that maybe she’s eavesdropping on a very private conversation. But they both know she’s in the room.

“I spent the night pacing the yard,” he says. “Thinking. And I think I shall be doing a great deal more thinking and pacing over the coming weeks and months. But at some point in all that thinking, I came to a realization.” He looks up and meets her eyes.  


“Yes?”

“There are still a great many things I need to ponder,” he says, and she agrees. “But of one thing, I am certain.”

Frigga raises her eyebrows.

He hesitates, and when he speaks his voice is just a little unsteady. “No matter what else happens, no matter what else is true or untrue . . . you are my mother.”

And dignified Frigga Allmother, queen of Asgard, weeps openly and gathers her son into a tight embrace; he buries his face in her shoulder and grips her tightly, looking for a moment like the little boy he once was. And Sif, in her warm little cocoon of bedding, smiles in relief.

. . . . . .

After a breakfast that is considerably less tense than their last meal all together, Loki submits to an examination by Hundith, who declares him ready to travel. Frigga thanks her effusively, with tears in her eyes, and pays her a massive amount of gold for her work. The old giantess weighs the bag of gold with one hand, pleased as punch.

“Just imagine what I can do with all this gold,” she says with a sharp grin. “You Asgardians are welcome back at any time, if you’re going to pay like this.”

“I hope very much that my son will avoid being mortally wounded again,” smiles Frigga. “But thank you for your offer, lady healer.”

Sif packs their things and readies the horses, and comes out to see Frigga bidding a fond farewell to their hostess. Then it is Loki’s turn.

“Thank you for saving my life,” he says, and the slight stiffness in his tone says that he isn’t quite at ease with the knowledge that this blue-skinned giant is more his biological kin than the Aesir mother who stands by his side.

Hundith gives him the gentle smile she reserves for when she speaks of her own sons. “I know you have a lot to process, boy,” she says. “But if you ever want to know more about your Jotun heritage, your mother knows where to find me. We have a long, proud history. Laufey hasn’t managed to entirely destroy it yet.”

“Thank you,” Loki says politely, and the small smile on his face says he might take her up on it someday.

And then it is Sif’s turn. “Give us a moment, will you?” Hundith asks the others, and the queen and prince obediently lead the animals to the gate and out of earshot of the conversation.

“What is it?” Sif asks curiously.

The old giantess steps close. “There’s something important I think you should know,” she says quietly.

With a sudden stab of fear that something is wrong with Loki, Sif bids her to continue.

Hundith leans in even closer, her face serious. “It hasn’t happened for many years,” she explains, “given the treaty, but there have been recorded cases of Aesir and Jotuns successfully interbreeding.”

There is silence a long few moments while Sif stares, unblinking, at the old woman. “ _ What _ ,” she says too loudly, and sees Frigga and Loki jump and turn to look at her.

She can see now that Hundith is fighting back a smile, and demands in a fierce whisper, “Are you stirring up trouble for your own amusement again?”

The healer roars with laughter. “My own amusement? Yes. Trouble? No, I rather thought you might find that information useful. For the future.”

“We—we aren’t—”

“But you could be. You’ve considered the possibility, haven’t you? And he certainly has.”

Sif feels her focus zero in on their conversation, as though it is the most important thing happening in the universe right now. “Has he?” she asks weakly.

“It can be dangerous, living alone at my age,” Hundith says conversationally. “So before I allow someone into my home to be healed, I use my truth-seeking gift to interrogate them first. Need to make sure their intentions are pure. So when an Asgardian woman, of all people, brings a Jotun boy to my door, I have a lot of questions to ask. She says she’s his mother, and that she would do anything to heal him, and I know that’s true. And then she says she’s brought a warrior woman along as protection, and I ask what this warrior’s connection is to the boy. And she says, ‘He loves her.’ And I know it’s true.”

The ground drops out from under Sif. Or it might as well, given the sudden dizzy, reeling sensation coursing through her. “If she said that,” she says shakily, “it was told you in confidence.”

“I know,” says Hundith cheerily. “But, well, here we are. What can I say? I like the idea of the lonely Jotun boy, feeling undervalued in his Asgardian home, earning the love of the Asgardian warrior woman. And stealing her out from under the nose of his more-popular brother. And that’s not going to happen without a little push; if the boy didn’t have the confidence to declare himself before this little outing, he’s certainly not going to have the confidence to do so now.”

Nothing seems stable. “I . . . we don’t . . .”

“Well, you’d best be off,” interrupts Hundith breezily. “Mustn’t keep the others waiting. If you’re ever in Jotunheim again, come visit me. I’ll have a new roof and a bigger fireplace by then.”

Sif stares at her, and then she laughs. “Thank you for everything, Hundith,” she says with all the good breeding she can muster, even if she really just wants to shake the old woman and demand answers. But there’s real affection in her heart as she looks at the giantess.

Hundith smiles. “You’re a good girl. I wouldn’t have told you the truth if I hadn’t known that you’ll be kind and fair to him, no matter what you choose.”

The frost giantess bids her farewell and goes inside, and Sif goes to join the others. “What did she want to talk about?” Frigga asks.

“Just to say goodbye, and tell me to come visit,” Sif lies. She can’t tell if they can tell she’s lying. Partly because she can’t make eye contact with Loki.

. . . . . .

The traveling party moves in silence through the trees, with Sif doing her absolute best not to steal glances at Loki, and driving herself mad wondering if it’s true or just Hundith making trouble one last time. It takes a while to reach an open space large enough for the Bifrost, because with three riders and only two horses, they’ve decided to walk. But soon enough the familiar light is pouring down on them, and they’re pulled from Jotunheim and returned to the Observatory.

Heimdall smiles at Loki. “I am pleased to see you recovering, my prince. We have all been terribly worried.”

Loki looks at Heimdall a long moment with a suspicious expression, which softens eventually; perhaps he sees that Heimdall speaks the truth. “Thank you,” he says politely.

“And good to see you back safe, my queen. And my little sister.”

“I am grown now,” she says with a half smile, but the old familiar argument is interrupted by the pounding of horse’s hooves.

“I took the liberty of informing someone of your arrival,” says Heimdall as Thor appears in the door of the Observatory and swings down easily from his horse. His anxious eyes seek out his brother, then, to everyone’s surprise, fill with tears.

“Brother!” He crosses the room in three large strides and pulls Loki into his arms. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you well.”

For his part, Loki is standing stiffly with his arms down at his sides, tolerating Thor’s embrace with a sort of surprised confusion. “Yes, well, here I am.”

“I am so sorry,” Thor says fervently, his chin tucked over Loki’s shoulder. “I have thought of little else this past week: only this fear that I had killed you with my stupidity. I should never have sought that battle with the fire demon.”

“I . . . no, you shouldn’t have.” Clearly Loki does not know what to do with an emotional and penitent Thor, who will not stop hugging him, because he stands there a while then adds, “But you did not intend harm. You were simply . . . questing.”

“A foolhardy hobby,” Thor proclaims, “and one I mean to give up, now that I see the potential harm.”

Sif doubts the prince will hold to such a declaration, but it’s a touching gesture, all the same.

And then Thor pulls back to look his little brother in the eye. “No victory would be worth losing you,” he says, so sincerely that Sif isn’t surprised to see Loki’s calm facade waver for a moment.

“I love you, brother,” Thor adds. “Never doubt that.” And he pulls him back into his embrace.

Loki’s eye meets Sif’s over Thor’s shoulder, and she grins broadly at him, more moved than she’d admit at this moment of brotherly affection.

And Loki smiles a little and finally lifts his arms to return the embrace. “I love you too,” he says quietly, and adds, “Brother.”

And Sif isn’t surprised to see a tear roll down Frigga’s cheek.

Thor insists that Loki ride his horse back to the palace, as he’s still weak; Thor himself leads the horse, with Frigga and Sif following behind. At the palace, they get another surprise: Odin waiting to greet them by the door, having woken from the Odinsleep just minutes earlier.

Sif catches flashes of an unspoken conversation between the king and queen: a question in his eyes, a resigned answer in hers. He sighs a little, but there’s no mistaking the warmth in his eyes as he looks at Loki.

“I am so pleased to see you have returned to us,” he says, and steps forward to greet Loki—who regards him with a somber look that keeps Odin from embracing him.

Odin’s shoulders sink in resignation. “No doubt we have a great deal to discuss,” he says quietly. “And we shall. But for now, let me simply say: I would have been heartbroken to lose you, my son.”

The harsh line of Loki’s shoulders softens, and he hesitates, then reaches out to grip Odin’s arm. “Thank you . . . Father,” he says quietly, and Frigga and Sif both sigh in relief.

Thor, who has entirely missed the subtext of this whole conversation, grins and throws an arm over Loki’s shoulders. “A feast, tonight, in Loki’s honor,” he proposes, then adds, “If you are feeling up to it.”

Loki looks surprised and pleased; little wonder, for other than his name day, Sif can’t remember the last time they had a feast in honor of Loki and Loki alone. “I don’t know that I shall be up for more than sitting down.”

“That’s all we need from you,” Thor chuckles. “Come, I’ll help you unpack.”

And he pulls his brother through the doorway, Loki shooting one last glance back at the other three before he disappears into the halls of the palace.

. . . . . .


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing!

. . . . . .

Things are different after Jotunheim.

The royal family’s interactions are different, for one thing. Loki’s near-death clearly shook Thor to his core, for in the weeks that follow, he is protective of his brother in a way that he has not been since they were children. Everywhere he goes, he wants Loki to come with him, seemingly unwilling to let him out of his sight; when Loki is feeling well enough to go back out to the training yards, Thor watches him like a hawk and scolds any who are uncareful in their sparring. Once or twice he even willingly sits with Loki in the library while he reads. Loki grumbles but is clearly secretly thrilled by the attention, and Sif hopes that when Thor inevitably relaxes that protective tendency, Loki doesn’t perceive the lessened attention as a slight.

Frigga has always been close to Loki, but there’s a watchfulness in her eyes now, as though constantly searching for a sign that Loki is growing unhappy; Sif recognizes it because she watches Loki the same way.

And Odin seems to be attempting to spend more time with his younger son, although now that it’s been pointed out to her, Sif can’t help but notice the king still gravitates more toward Thor, his heir. But Odin does seem to be working at fixing that; it will simply take time, for the king is slow to change his ways, and slow to admit he’s been wrong.

There’s a difference in the way that others are treating Loki as well, the Warriors Three and the Einherjar and the the palace staff: his heroic conduct in the battle against the fire demon, combined with the fact that he heroically nearly died in said battle and has been honored by Thor for it, have led to a marked increase in respect for the younger prince. Part of Sif is glad of it and part of her is angry with them for only proving what Loki has always suspected to be true: his worth in their eyes is directly tied to his glory in battle and his similarities to Thor. She hopes that someday Loki can reach a point where he is comfortable telling others the truth about his past, and she knows he will never reach such a point if the people of Asgard continue to praise him only for his skill in killing monsters. For how could such a people accept him when he is one of the very enemy they love to fight? And she promises herself that she will take every opportunity to remind him his worth is tied to so much more than battle.

Which would be much easier if she were talking to him these days. For that is another way that things are different.

It’s Sif’s fault, really, or maybe it’s Hundith’s, or maybe it’s Loki’s. What is certain is that since they’ve returned from Jotunheim, the prince and the shieldmaiden have interacted but little with each other, even though he’s spending more time with the warriors than ever, courtesy of Thor. It’s just that when she sees Loki, she is reminded of Hundith’s final words, and that gives her pause, and makes her uncomfortable around the prince.

Not because she doesn’t want to encourage him. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Since Hundith told her Loki has feelings for her, she has thought of little else. Her own inclination for him, hidden away all these centuries under layers of duty and denial, has grown and flourished wildly since that revelation, and is now at the forefront of her mind at nearly every moment. It distracts her when she’s sparring, makes her dreamily wistful at mealtimes, and keeps her awake at night. It is starting to interfere with her life.

But that’s not why she’s trying to ignore it. She’s trying to ignore it because since Jotunheim, Loki seems to be trying to ignore her.

Even Hogun has noticed it, and brings it up one day after sparring. “Did you and Loki fight?” he asks bluntly.

Sif carefully doesn’t react. “No, not in a long time.”

Her companion is not convinced. “Because when he’s around, you two avoid each other.”

Oh, Sif has noticed. “Perhaps it is because I accompanied his mother to heal him,” she suggests casually. “You know he hates to be seen at a disadvantage. Perhaps he’s embarrassed around me because I saw him weak and helpless.”

That seems to satisfy Hogun, and it makes Sif smile wryly to think that it’s not precisely a lie. Loki’s reticence around her, the way he’ll address everyone in the room except her, could indeed stem from her having seen him at what he'd consider a disadvantage; he could simply be embarrassed that she knows the truth about him, that she’s one of three Asgardians who have ever seen him in his Jotun form, that she saw him cry and rage about his parentage.

But she wonders if there’s more to it than that. The more time passes since Jotunheim, and the more Loki casually ignores her, the less potent the memory of Hundith’s words become. And she finds herself wondering: maybe the old giantess was mistaken. Maybe Frigga was mistaken. Maybe Loki changed his mind. Maybe Hundith was lying for her own amusement, as she’s wont to do. Because Loki had never given her a hint that he feels that way before Jotunheim, and he’s even less close to her now than he was, and the possibility of his caring for her seems less likely with each day that passes.

Especially when she remembers her behavior in Jotunheim: the way she fell to her knees by his sickbed and hid her face against his arm; the way she held his hand, kissed his hand, kissed his head. She practically threw herself at him—her face burns now when she thinks of it—so if he cared for her, surely he’d have taken that as encouragement and done something about it. But if he doesn’t care for her, perhaps that could explain some of his behavior now. Maybe he means to discourage her attention with distance.

And she has always been too proud to put up with repeated rejections. So she politely ignores him, and he politely ignores her, and a shared experience that ought to have brought them closer together has instead driven them miles apart.

. . . . . .

And so things go, and so things might have gone forever if not for Thor and his desire to go for a ride on bright morning a month after they’ve returned from Jotunheim. He wants to get a large group together, but in the end only succeeds in talking Loki and Sif into accompanying him.

And though this goes against Sif’s attempts to avoid Loki this last month, the siren call of a ride is too much for her to resist: the morning is bright, the temperature pleasant, the hills around Asgard glittering like emeralds. And it has been far too long since she has taken a leisurely ride.

So the three of them set out and ride a half-hour into those hills, finally coming to one of their favorite spots: a grassy field on a hillside from which they can see the whole city stretching out below them like a sack full of golden coins spilled across a green velvet blanket. They secure their horses and seat themselves in the grass, as they used to do as children, and Sif leans back on her hands and feels the sun warm her face and is glad Thor talked her into this.

“We should have brought a picnic,” Loki says suddenly. “As we did as children.”

Thor grins. “Remember when we fell asleep out here, and the whole palace was in an uproar? They thought we’d been carried off or killed or some such thing.”

“You were supposed to tell Mother where we were going,” Loki points out.

Thor grins unrepentantly, and Sif feels a smile of her own coming on. It’s lovely to see them so close again, and she hopes, as she does several times a day, that Loki someday reaches a point where he feels he can trust Thor with the truth about his past.

“I suppose the advantage of being an adult is that you can disappear for a few hours and not have nursemaids and parents in an uproar,” Sif observes. “It really is lovely to get away from the sparring grounds; I’m glad you invited me, Thor. And glad your meeting with Hœnir got canceled to allow you to come.”

Thor blinks at her. “Meeting with Hœnir?”

“About the diplomatic envoy from Nidavellir?” Loki prompts, and Thor blanches.

“That was today!” he realizes, and scrambles to his feet. “He’s going to kill me. But if I hurry back now, I can still catch the last half of the meeting.”

“Wait,” says Loki, starting to rise as Thor swings up into the saddle of his horse. Sif stands as well.

“You should finish the ride,” he tells them. “Don’t let me ruin your morning.” And he gallops away, leaving Sif and Loki totally alone for the first time in a month.

Totally alone with Loki, miles from anyone who might interrupt them.

Sif doesn’t know if she loves or hates that idea.

But apparently Loki knows how he feels about it: “Why don’t we head back?” he suggests in a tone that seems meant to sound casual. “I suppose we’ve had enough of a ride already.”

Half an hour is hardly any ride at all. She knows Loki likes long rides, when he goes; he’s clearly just trying to avoid spending time with her, and she’s surprised at how it hurts, like a twinge in her chest from an old wound not quite healed. This, she thinks irritably, is why she doesn’t bother with romance.

“If you want to be rid of me, you can just say so,” she mutters, and turns to grab her horse’s reins.

But Loki’s voice stops her. “I don’t want to be rid of you.”

“You just don’t want to be out here with me.”

“I never said that!”

“Not aloud but you're certainly eager to end this ride and go home,” she retorts, turning to face him. “Besides, you don’t have to say it; I’ve seen how you avoid me lately.” Loki looks quite surprised, perhaps at her audacity, and she remembers that she is a mere shieldmaiden, and he her prince, and finds herself adding, “Which is fine; you aren’t required to spend time with me.”

His expression is strange then. “Of course I want to spend time with you.”

“Then why do you keep avoiding me?” she demands.

“Because you’ve been avoiding me!”

Sif falls silent and they stare at each other a moment in the morning sunlight, the only sound the leaves rustling in the breeze.

“I’ve been avoiding you because I thought you wanted me to,” says Loki. “Because I thought you started avoiding me first.”

“Why would I avoid you?” Sif demands, and Loki sputters in surprise and gestures at his body.

“Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

“I told you I don’t care,” Sif says, genuinely annoyed for a moment. “What will it take for you to believe me?”

“It’s a hard thing not to mind,” says Loki. “Believe me, I’m trying.”

“I _don’t_ mind,” Sif says firmly. “I like you as you are.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me?”

“I thought you wanted me to avoid you! You seemed to be staying away from me; sometimes you won’t even make eye contact. I thought you started it.”

“Why would I avoid you?” Loki demands.

“Because I know!” Sif bursts out. “I thought you were angry and embarrassed that I knew the truth, and that I’d seen you. I thought you were feeling self-conscious and preferred not to have me around as a reminder.”

Loki goes to retort, then hesitates, then seems to think better of it. He ponders a moment, then admits quietly, “I hate that you know. Because I don’t want you to think badly of me.”

So she was right.

But then he adds, “But if anyone had to know, I’m glad it was you.”

Sif stares at him a long moment, and then flops inelegantly back down on the grass. Loki follows a moment after, seating himself on the ground with much more poise than his companion.

They sit in silence a long few moments, staring out at the city below them. “Maybe we should stop avoiding each other,” Sif says finally, and Loki laughs a little.

“I really thought you wanted not to see me,” he says after a few moments of silence. “But I would never prefer not having you around.”

“I thought _you_ didn’t want to see _me_ ,” is her response. “But I like you just as you are.”

“I’m working on believing that could be true,” he says, but there’s undeniable relief in his posture and his voice. Clearly it takes more than a month to get past the experience of finding out you are not who you think you are.

They lapse into silence again.

“I really was listening, when you said in Jotunheim that you don’t mind,” Loki says finally. “But I thought you’d changed your mind. About . . . my past.” Sif reaches out to cover his hand with hers, a comforting gesture she doesn’t seem to use with anyone but Loki. The motion feels very familiar, and memories of that journey suddenly come back to her.

She opens her mouth and hears herself say, “I worried that I’d been too forward on Jotunheim, and that’s why you started withdrawing.”

“Too forward?”

“Oh, you know,” she says, suddenly embarrassed, “that I kept touching you.”

Loki gives her a bittersweet little smile, with something almost self-deprecating in it. “I didn’t mind that.”

That statement echoes in her ears, along with the thought of Loki’s unmistakable relief that she hasn’t turned her back on him, and Hundith’s parting comments to her, and the fact that since they returned from Jotunheim, she has longed for Loki in a way she did not know herself capable of. All these things jumble up in her head until they come out in a most unexpected manner.

In years to come, Sif will never know quite what gave her the confidence to say what she’s about to say; she’s always been reckless with her personal safety but protective of her heart.  But she manages to make her heart vulnerable this time. “You know,” she says conversationally, and pulls her hand back into her lap because it’s very distracting to feel Loki’s skin against hers, “Hundith is very cautious about who she lets into her home.”

“Okay?”

“She let me in,” Sif goes on carefully, “because she thought there was something going on between us.” It’s a version of the truth, right? And this way he won’t be upset with his mother.

He grows quite still. “Oh?”

She nods. “That’s what she wanted to talk to me about, there at the end.”

Still he gives nothing away: “Oh?”

Despite the tension of the moment, Sif finds herself smiling a little. “And she wanted me to know that there have been recorded cases of Aesir and Jotuns successfully interbreeding.”

Finally a reaction: his eyes widen, just a fraction. “Oh.” There is silence a long moment, and then Loki shifts a little, almost imperceptibly, and then he asks, reluctantly but with just the tiniest note of hope, “What was your response?”

Sif turns to look at him, her eyes going over that face she knows so well, making certain she is committed to the path she has chosen. He meets her gaze, clearly a little confused but unwilling to give in and look away first, with blue-green eyes so familiar, so lovely, so loved, that she finds herself fighting back a silly, smitten smile. Yes, she’s certain.

So she answers, with her gaze fixed on him so she can see his reaction. “Honestly, nothing coherent; it was so unexpected I hardly knew how to respond.”

“Ah,” says Loki, and only someone who knows him well would see the infinitesimal slump of his shoulders, hear the tiny hint of resignation in his tone. And it gives her courage to continue.

“But if I’d had my wits about me,” she says, taking a moment to be amazed at her own audacity, “I would have said that I’ve never had a very high opinion of marriage and childbearing, but that for a certain person, I might make an exception. So I appreciated her information.”

She means to go further but her words fail her. She’s already reached out her hand; she just needs Loki to reach out too, to meet her halfway. And she stares at his dumbfounded expression and tries to force him into action, just by the strength of her will: _just meet me halfway_.

The look on Loki’s face is one she’s absolutely never seen on him before: no mask, no smooth confidence, nothing but raw, unadulterated shock (she fervently hopes that she’s been reading him right, and that it’s a pleased sort of surprise, rather than indignation at her presumption; he is, after all, a prince of the realm, and she a mere shieldmaiden). She holds his gaze and hopes: _just meet me halfway_.

And then the tiniest bit of . . . _something_ lightens his face, and he swallows, and says slowly but steadily, “My parents have spoken to me of marriage a few times, but I’ve always put them off because I was certain the lady I loved would not have me. For her true love is her duty and her sword . . . and if she were to choose a prince, it would surely be my brother, who is a far better match for her.”

Weeks—years—centuries of doubt fall away, and Sif has the most peculiar sensation that a glorious new star is burning in the center of her chest, filling her whole being with a beautiful lightness. “She does not want your brother,” is her fervent answer. “She has only ever wanted you.”

She reaches out her hand toward him, for one wonderful moment certain that she has finally gotten the thing she longs for most—and is shocked and hurt when Loki jumps to his feet and backs away from her, his expression dark.

“You can’t, Sif,” he says. “You shouldn’t.”

She stares—and then she scowls. “Is this about being a Jotun?” she demands, scrambling to her feet. “I don’t know how else to tell you that I don’t care. I don’t know how to make you believe me.”

“You might truly mean it now,” he says. “But in time . . . this is not a light thing, easily ignored.”

“Of course it’s not a light thing, and I don’t want to ignore it. It’s who you are. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you!”

“It should!” he fires back. “I can’t even touch you in my true form!”

That seems a problem with an easy solution. “Then don’t touch me in your true form,” she suggests.

“And what of children?” he demands. “Would you have your own flesh and blood be half monster?”

She glares at him.

“Jotun?” he corrects.

“I’m not quite proposing marriage just yet. But if those children were yours, then yes.”

“But what of how people might react if they knew?” he demands. “You worked so hard to command everyone’s respect as a warrior; a connection to me could ruin it.”

He only gets like this—this uncontrolled rambling—when he’s truly upset. Sif takes a step forward and speaks softly. “What is this really about, Loki?”

He stares at her, and then his shoulders slump. There’s silence a few long moments, and then he half-whispers, “If I let myself start to hope, and then you changed your mind, I don’t think I could bear it. Better never to start.”

These are still the moments she loves him most: when he allows himself to be vulnerable with her. She wishes, for the millionth time, he could see that this is the best version of him: honest, open, sincere.

Another step closer. “I can’t promise what the future will hold,” Sif responds, equally quiet. “But I know how I feel. And I have no intention of changing my mind any time soon.”

Loki says nothing.

“Please believe me.”

He looks at her a long moment, while Sif feels her heart pound in her chest.

And then he nods.

And Sif feels a wide grin split her face; an answering smile, still a little disbelieving but deeply hopeful, appears on Loki’s.

“You believe me, then?”

He takes a steadying breath. “I have never known the lady Sif to be anything but honest and upright. Perhaps I ought to be willing to take her at her word. Especially since . . . I very much want to.”

She takes one more step, and finds herself only a breath away from him. “Loki Odinson,” she says formally, “prince of Asgard, son of Laufey, god of mischief, I’m going to kiss you, if you don’t mind.”

Happiness lights up his eyes. “I find I don’t mind at all,” he says, and Sif steps into his arms and tilts her face up to his. He very obligingly meets her halfway.

. . . . . .

Oh, it is worth it, being with him: the thousand joys she had hoped for, and a million tiny pleasures she had never even dreamed of. Their patient uncertainty over the last centuries is rewarded a hundredfold in the time they spend together. It is long walks through the streets of the city and stolen moments in the corridors; it is reclining in his arms before a roaring fire while mead is passed among the warriors and bards sing of their triumphs in battle, and it is resting her head in his lap in a quiet library while he reads to her from ancient volumes of poetry. It is kisses beneath a starlit sky, and it is better than she ever dreamed of.

Sif and Loki find themselves better suited to each other than they had realized; they are both fiercely independent and crave time alone to spend on their own pursuits. So they are both perfectly happy to spend a day apart, her to pursue her training and him to pursue his studies, and then find each other again at the evening meal and make up for lost time (it becomes known throughout the palace that anyone who attempts to take the last open seat beside Loki before Sif arrives, or vice versa, may suffer dire consequences). On other days they find activities they both enjoy: they take long rides and walks together, and he entertains her with his newest magic spells, and they spar together while the other warriors determinedly ignore their shameless flirting.

Loki has turned out to be a deeply attentive and romantic partner, in his way, even if he does have a tendency to get caught up in his studies and books sometimes; Sif is constantly finding little notes and gifts on her pillow or tucked into her training armor. She treasures the notes even more than the gifts, and pins them upon the wall in her chambers, where she can read over them often: _Read today of Gotha the magician, who was eaten by a dragon, and was glad to know that such a fate could never befall me, for my fair lady can slay any beast_. . .

She thanks him, and responds with thoughtful gestures of her own, and dreads the day that the magic of a new courtship fades, and the stream of constant attentions with it. But as yet he has shown no sign of stopping.

It is not always perfect: Loki can still be moody and secretive on occasion, and he still struggles to come to terms with the truth about his past. But these moments are infrequent, and they are learning to work through them together. All told, it is the happiest Sif can remember being in centuries—perhaps ever—and Loki assures her, through looks and actions and whispered words between kisses, that he feels the same.

And those around them share their joy: Thor is startled, having had no idea of anything building between them, but he could not be happier for them. Fandral ribs her for settling on one person—and is clearly a bit baffled she chose Loki—but Hogun seems pleased and Volstagg, the family man, approves heartily.

No one is more thrilled than Frigga, who confesses to Sif that she’d had a secret reason for choosing her for that journey to Jotunheim, a journey that would reveal the truth about Loki. “I’d long wondered if we’d need to tell Loki the truth once he married; he and his wife would deserve to know how this might affect their children. And I knew you were the only woman he’d ever loved. So I thought perhaps I’d be telling you this secret someday anyway.”

And Sif basks in knowing that she has the queen’s approval for . . . whatever the future might hold.

The only person who seems not to approve wholeheartedly is Odin, who spends the first few months of the courtship giving Sif smiles that don’t quite reach his eyes. Sif is sorry about it, but not surprised; a mere shieldmaiden is not the social equal of a prince, she knows, so surely Odin has higher aspirations for his son.

Or so she thinks, until she mentions it to Loki, on a sunset walk some six months into their courtship, and is surprised by the strength of his denial.

“My father thinks the world of you.”

“Does he? Because since we started courting he has been . . . a little distant. He never seems entirely pleased to see us together. I fear he does not approve of a mere warrior maiden for a son of Odin.”

Loki sighs, and hesitates, and then speaks. “It is not that he thinks little of you,” he explains. “It’s that he thinks very highly of you.”

Still she does not understand.

Loki comes to a stop so he can look her in the eye, his expression grave in the soft light that comes just before sunset. “He has long hoped to secure you for his other son,” he explains. “He thinks you would make a very fine Allmother someday.”

There is silence a few long moments while Sif considers this, her eyes widening in surprise. “Sif Allmother, queen of Asgard,” she says, testing the taste of it on her tongue.

“Do you like the sound of it?” Loki asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“It is very impressive,” she confesses.

“I suppose it’s not too late for you to earn the title,” he says, attempting and failing to effect a joking tone. “Thor is still single.”

“And very handsome,” she agrees. Loki stiffens—then relaxes his shoulders when she laughs. “Did you really think I might be tempted?”

“You would make a fine queen,” he points out.

“Undoubtedly I would,” she agrees. “And I would enjoy the power that comes with it. But not the responsibility; your mother is constantly torn between a thousand duties and obligations. And the queen of Asgard cannot ride into battle, or even spend a great deal of time at the training yard. I am the goddess of war; I could hardly give that up for a mere queenship. Besides—” she leans close and presses a kiss to his jawline— “then I’d have to be married to Thor.”

There is relief in his eyes when he looks at her, and her own eyes widen in surprise. “You genuinely thought I might say yes, didn’t you? You feared I would abandon you for your brother.”

He shrugs stiffly. “People have done far worse to wear a crown. I would hardly even think less of you for it; you could do a great deal of good as queen. Rein in some of Thor’s more impulsive and foolhardy tendencies. You might see it as a patriotic duty, for the good of Asgard.”

But she shakes her head. “Let me assure you now: I have no interest in ruling Asgard. Leave that to a woman who is somber and thoughtful and wise. Let me serve my kingdom with my sword and my blood. And let me love my throneless prince. For I am far happier with him than I would be with his brother. And I am far happier a warrior than I would be a queen.”

He hesitates, a look in his eyes she can’t read, then reaches for her hand; she meets him halfway and interlaces her fingers with his. “Then we won’t make you queen,” he agrees, not quite looking her in the eye. “But . . . is your objection to holding that title in particular? Or to all royal titles?”

She blinks. “Why do you ask?” she says, and finds her pulse accelerating subtly.

“Because I find myself interested in the answer,” is his glib reply.

But if he’s asking what she thinks he’s asking, she’s not going to make that leap first: despite many centuries of friendship, and many months of courtship, he’s still a prince of Asgard, and his actions matter to the realm in a way that hers do not. “You’ll have to explain what you mean.”

He frowns down at their joined hands. “I’m glad to hear you don’t want to marry Thor,” he murmurs. “I’m . . . simply wondering if that extends to all offers of marriage from members of the royal family.”

She swallows hard, her heart beating a tattoo against her chest. “Do you think me likely to receive an offer of marriage from any other royalty any time soon?”

His fingers tighten around hers, his face still downturned, and she worries she’s pushed too hard. And then he looks up with a rueful grin. “I had this all planned out, you know,” he laughs. “It was going to be terribly romantic: a picnic under the stars and music and everything.” Then his smile falters. “But if you’re uninterested in the responsibilities that come with a royal title . . .”

She hesitates “Would it require me to give up being a warrior?”

“Of course not,” he says, and sounds genuinely dismayed at the prospect. “It’s who you are. I couldn’t ask you to give that up.”

There’s a giddiness building in her chest, and she’s worried it’s going to burst out of her like a firework if she doesn’t speak soon. “In that case, I think ‘princess’ seems an excellent compromise between no responsibilities and the responsibilities of a queen.”

Hope kindles back into life behind his eyes, and relief fills his voice: “Oh, good.”

And Sif, for her part, couldn’t stop smiling if she tried. But then her brow furrows. “So . . . are you asking?”

He reaches out for her waist and pulls her closer with a smile. “If your answer would be yes, then yes, I’m asking. If your answer is no, or ‘What are you thinking, we’ve not been courting long enough,’ then no, of course I’m not asking, what a silly question.”

“Interesting,” she says with mock thoughtfulness. “For I find I am inclined to accept.”

There’s a relieved smile, bright as the sun, on his face for the split second before he kisses her, and Sif wraps her arms around him and imagines a future of this, always this, for the rest of their lives, and finds herself smiling too.

“I would still like this romantic picnic, if you please,” she says when they come up for air. “It sounds very charming.”

“It will be,” he assures her. “I’ve even started writing a speech—though it’s not completed yet, as I hadn’t dared imagine you’d consider entertaining my proposal for months yet. All I have so far is a very long list of your charms.”

“Then you must bring this along on our picnic. For I am very interested in hearing a long list of my charms.” She hesitates. “I’ve just thought, though—your father—”

“I’ve spoken to him of my intentions,” he assures her. “He is slightly annoyed that he will have to start over in finding a suitable queen for Thor, but he is happy for me, and pleased at the thought of gaining you as a daughter.”

A daughter of Odin . . . to be princess of Asgard . . . a notion that is both thrilling and daunting. And wholly unexpected.

He notices her change of expression. “What is it?”

“Somehow, in all our time together, and all the previous centuries I spent telling myself I didn’t have feelings for you, I never seriously considered this as a possible outcome. No, I knew it was possible,” she corrects herself, “but I suppose I thought your father would never allow it to happen. That you would be required to make a political match, or at least a match with someone who is more your social equal.”

“Is this a pleasant surprise, then?” he asks, then adds, “Princess Sif?”

The title puts her off-balance a moment. “No doubt it will take some adjusting,” she laughs. “But I suppose I won’t mind it, as long as it means I’m with you.”

Loki gives her a self-deprecating smile. “I, on the other hand, have been daydreaming about this outcome for centuries.”

“How convenient for you that things worked out, then,” she teases.

But Loki doesn’t laugh; instead he grows thoughtful. “Do you ever think,” he asks, “about how close we came to not ending up here? I spent centuries convinced you cared for Thor; it wasn’t until your actions on Jotunheim that I dared consider otherwise. If I hadn’t gotten injured . . .”

“And it was Thor’s forgetfulness that gave us that chance to discuss everything, and admit our feelings,” Sif notes. “We owe him twice over: for his stupidity in fighting that fire demon, and for his forgetfulness that day.” She smiles. “We should probably never tell him that. He might take it as permission to continue that kind of behavior.”

Loki smiles, but his brow is still furrowed in thought. “Not to mention . . . I’ve never told you how close I came that day to doing something desperate. I hardly know what—I had vague thoughts of finding some drastic way to prove myself to my father, or running away and turning my back on my family altogether . . . If you and my mother hadn’t been there to talk me down, I shudder to think what the outcome could have been. We came so close to never reaching this point.”

“I know,” she says, tightening her arms around him and laying her cheek against his shoulder. “It frightens me to think of it sometimes.”

He leans his head against hers. “Sif.”

“Yes?” she says when he doesn’t go on.

“I will ask one more time,” he says. “And then, if you prefer, I will never speak of it again.”

Sif leans back to look at him, curious.

He’s not quite making eye contact with her, and she can read shame on his face, and she knows what is on his mind before he speaks. “You’re certain? About me, and everything that entails?”

It’s not surprising this came up; Loki has made some measure of peace with his true parentage, but it will be a long time before he truly comes to terms with it—before he stops falling into a funk when someone tells a story of the war with Jotunheim, before he no longer needs Sif to reassure him in occasional dark moments.

“I’m certain that I love you, and that I want to marry you, with everything that entails.”

“You’re certain you’re willing to . . . it may be difficult to . . . bear my children.”

“When have I been afraid of difficult things?”

“Never,” he agrees. “I just want to hear you say that you know what you’re getting into, and you don’t mind.”

So she takes his hands in hers. “I know what I’m getting into, and I don’t mind. In fact I find great joy in the thought. You know I have never been a particularly maternal person, but I look forward to the prospect of changing that for our children.”

And Loki’s shoulders slump in relief. “Our children . . . another thing for which I must thank Thor and his idiotic fight with that fire demon.”

“We can name one after him,” Sif suggests, keeping her expression perfectly sincere. “After Thor, I mean, not the fire demon.”

Loki gives her a very expressive look and she smirks. “Or we can keep thinking,” she says. “We have time.”

“We do,” Loki agrees, leaning down to kiss her. “We have all the time in the world.”

. . . . . .

fin


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was done with this, but an awesome prompt from Ludholtzjj and encouragement from CallistoNicol got me thinking about an epilogue, and here we are. It is tooth rotting fluff. You have been warned.

. . . . . .

Five years later

. . . . . .

In Gladsheim, the golden palace of Asgard, every servant, every Einherjar, every courtier, agrees on one thing: the announcement that Prince Loki and Princess Sif are to have a child has been a blessing to all.

With the long lifespans of Asgardians, babies are born but rarely, and it has been decades since Volstagg’s last child—he being the denizen of Gladsheim to have most recently fathered a child—and centuries since the last royal baby: Loki himself. The ladies chosen as nursemaids are aflutter with excitement, and even those servants who will have no direct responsibility for the child eagerly anticipate having little feet pattering through the golden halls once more.

Not to mention, the birth of a new royal baby means a celebration for all of Asgard: massive feasts, and a weeklong holiday, and a naming ceremony where all may come to see the child. And it means continuity for the house of Odin: should Thor never marry and father a child, at least there is a new generation that could ascend to the throne. And continuity means safety from war; it means economic stability.

And the benefits do not stop there. Loki has been mellowed by marriage, but impending fatherhood mellows him even more, which is a relief to the palace staff; he was always such a clever, mischievous child, and prone to such dramatic moods, that those servants who waited on him did so on tenterhooks. He was never cruel to the servants, but he could be capricious and difficult to please, and prone to playing tricks on those around him. But now he’s happy in a way he has not been for many years; this makes him kind to others, and leads him to only play tricks on people if he feels they deserve it. (It helps that the princess, not having been born into quite so much privilege, does not take this life for granted, and gives her husband a stern talking to any time she catches him being difficult with the servants.)

And Princess Sif is vastly happy as well, although a person would have to know her well to understand the true weight of her smiles, as she is still not overly demonstrative with her feelings. The servants of Gladsheim adore their princess, who is kind (if firm) and now the mother of the first royal baby in centuries, and are beyond pleased to wait on her hand and foot. It clearly galls her to need their help, being such a fierce and independent warrior as she is, but now that she cannot even pick things up off the floor, she reluctantly submits.

(Rumor is that it took a long lecture from Eir and Frigga to convince her she should avoid sparring in her last few months of pregnancy, and she now sticks to slow solo drills, throwing knives and archery. More than one Einherjar has received a broken nose after snickering at the sight of the heavily pregnant Sif fighting to keep her balance during sword drills.)

(It should be noted, the broken nose is as likely to come from Thor as from Sif.)

The knowledge that his younger brother will be a father seems to be having a dramatic effect on the crown prince. He matured a great deal after his foolish escapade with the fire demon nearly got Loki killed; he thinks before leaping into danger, and calculates the potential harm his actions may cause. But he’s changed even more since Loki and Sif made the announcement; it seems to have occurred to him for the first time that he, too, will one day be expected to marry,  and to father and raise the future king of Asgard, so he tries to be a little less familiar with tavern wenches while on missions, and to behave with a little more decorum at royal events.

The king and queen, normally so sedate and dignified, have been noticeably happier as well. That Frigga should be so excited is hardly a surprise—it’s well known how much she loves children—so it’s Odin’s reaction that has shocked all of Gladsheim. The one-eyed king has leapt into preparations with gusto, overseeing renovations to the long-dormant nursery, fussing over Sif’s health and comfort until she looks mad enough to box the Allfather’s ears, and showering his son, daughter-in-law and unborn grandchild with presents, including an estate in the hills surrounding Asgard where Sif may one day teach her child to hunt. The rest of Gladsheim hide their smiles behind their hands and joke privately about how the only thing to ever bring the Allfather into submission is a baby not even yet born.

Yes, all of Gladsheim anticipates the baby’s birth—which should come any day now—with great happiness.

But that doesn’t mean there is no unhappiness in the palace. In fact, there is unhappiness brewing in the prince and princess’s sitting room.

Thor is staring at his brother and sister-in-law with a look like he has been punched in the gut. “What are you saying?”

Sif, wearing one of the loose gowns that are now all that will fit over her belly, folds her hands tightly and presses her lips together.

Loki glances at her, but, seeing there will be no help from that quarter, looks helplessly back at his brother. “I’m sorry, Thor. It’s nothing personal. We would just prefer to make this trip alone.”

“Alone except for Mother, Father and Eir,” Thor retorts. He hesitates, looking from Loki to Sif and back again. “I don’t expect to be allowed at the delivery, if you don’t want me,” he says. “But could I not wait outside with Father?”

Loki looks stricken at the pained expression on his brother’s face, and once again looks to Sif for help. She hardly knows what to say, though; she agrees that Thor should come, and disagrees with Loki’s reasons against it, but it is Loki’s secret to keep. All she can do is say, “It’s not that we don’t love you, Thor. And I am certain you will be the best uncle a child could have.”

From Loki there is nothing; his silver tongue seems to have failed him. Thor looks at him a long time, clearly hoping he’ll relent, then hangs his head. “I’ll go unpack.”

To see the ebullient Thor look so downtrodden leaves a sour feeling in the room, and Sif isn’t surprised to see Loki’s shoulders slump once they are alone.

“What?” he demands when he sees Sif looking at him. “You know this is the right choice, Sif.”

“It is the right choice if you mean to keep the secret forever,” she corrects him. “And that is what I believe you should rethink.”

Loki heaves a gusty sigh and turns to make his way to his dressing room.

“Wait, undo my clasp first?”

Obediently Loki unhooks the clasp at the back of her dress, bending to kiss the newly bared spot of skin, and Sif grins and turns to kiss him properly, pulling back just as the kiss starts to deepen. Generally she would have no complaints about where the moment was leading, but the fact is that she is the size of a boat and she’s never been so tired in her life. “Another time,” she promises, and makes her way to her own dressing room.

“Life truly is a long line of one disappointment after another,” he says philosophically from behind her, and she snorts and, in one smooth motion, pulls the jeweled comb from her hair and throws it over her shoulder in the direction of his voice. This indignant “Ouch!” tells her that her aim was true.

Ten minutes later she is trying to find a comfortable position in bed, and Loki is sliding in next to her, burying his face in her neck and putting one hand on her enormous belly. It is a source of no small amount of satisfaction and pleasure to her that her husband seems no less attracted to her these days, even with her swollen belly and ankles, and the fact that she can’t get out of a chair without help and has to relieve herself about once a minute.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he murmurs into her skin. “Normally if someone threw a comb at me I’d curse them with monkey paws for a few hours, at the very least.”

“Very mature for a prince of Asgard,” she murmurs back.

Loki is quiet for a moment, and then the hand that was on her stomach slides up to worry at the shoulder of her nightdress. Loki fidgeting: something heavy is on his mind. And she imagines she knows what.

“Are you so certain I ought to tell Thor?” he asks finally.

They have had this conversation a thousand times since she got pregnant, and a thousand times before she got pregnant, but he’s never sounded so vulnerable. So she’s willing to have it again. “I have always thought you ought to tell Thor. He’s your brother, and he loves you dearly. He will understand.”

“He hates the Jotuns more than anyone.”

It is an old familiar argument, and she knows what her next line is. “He will not, when he learns you are one.”

“He has never responded well to surprises or secrets.”

“All the more reason for you to tell him, rather than letting him find out some unexpected way.”

“He might never find out.”

“Do you think that likely?” Sif asks quietly. This part of the discussion has changed since Sif got pregnant. They both agree that they cannot hide the truth from their child, the way it was hidden from Loki, and if the child looks Jotun and does not disguise itself, the way Loki did, they are not going to force a shift on it; they do not want their child to think they want to hide his or her true nature. Loki will confess the truth of his parentage to Asgard then.

But if the child passes for Asgardian or disguises itself as such—which seems the more likely outcome, given that Eir’s prenatal tests tell them the child is already strong in seiðr—they have decided to confess the truth once she or he is old enough to understand and decide what to do about it. If the child chooses to continue to live as an Asgardian, then they will continue to keep the secret; if the child chooses to embrace his or her Jotun heritage, then Loki will confess his own secret to Asgard as well.

And because Loki knows all this, he sighs. “Not entirely likely, no.”

“And even if we never tell him your secret, he might stumble across it some other way. Far better that we tell him the truth, to help him understand it and give him time to come to terms with it, than to let him just blunder into it on his own.”

Loki sighs “I know. I just . . . I do not have your faith that he will be unaffected by the news. I do not want to change how he views me, or the baby.”

“I don’t think you give enough credit to how much he loves you. He will not care.”

“You cannot know that.” But there’s an uncertainty in his voice that isn’t usually there, and it encourages her to press on, despite how much she’d like to simply go to sleep.

So she tries a new argument. “But Loki, did you see Thor’s face tonight? He is heartbroken that you will not allow him to journey with us. Especially since your parents are coming. It must feel like a slap in the face to be excluded so. You fear that telling him the truth will affect your relationship with him, but I fear not telling him may do the same.”

That affects him, she can tell from the way he wraps his arm around her and buries his face against her shoulder, like a child wanting to be comforted. “Sif, I don’t know what to do.”

She presses a kiss to his hair. “Trust your brother,” she says. “Trust me.”

He sighs and holds her closer; she smiles . . . and then she frowns. “I am baking like a brick kiln,” she grumbles. “If you expect to cuddle, you had better cast a cooling spell.”

Loki snickers and moves his hand, and she feels the strange shift in air pressure she has come to associate with his magic. Immediately the air around them cools until she no longer feels like a roasting pig on a spit, and having Loki’s body heat against her is no longer unbearable. And she sighs in contentment. “There are certainly advantages to being married to a sorcerer.”

. . . . . .

When she wakes in the morning, she is alone. The maid who comes in to help her dress for the day—something she only tolerates now that she’s so heavily pregnant—hands her a note in Loki’s hand: _Please join me in Mother and Father’s sitting room_.

She makes her way there, stopping in the dining hall to grab a hunk of bread, and finds her husband pacing anxiously while his parents watch with mild expressions of concern. “What is it?” she asks.

“Sif!” Loki stops his pacing and crosses the room to gather her in his arms, holding her in a way that tells her he finds comfort in the proximity. One of the things that surprised her most when they started courting is how much he loves touching and being touched; she’d thought the prickly and secretive Loki would hate it, but any time he’s near her he’s holding her hand, wrapping an arm around her waist, even just pressing his knee against hers under the table.

“Loki?” she presses.

He pulls back and looks at her. “I’m going to tell Thor.”

“You’re certain?” she asks somberly. She certainly thinks he ought to do it, but she would feel quite guilty if her constant insistence had pressured him into doing something he wasn’t ready to do.

He nods. “I paced for hours last night after you fell asleep,” he says, and now that he’s mentioned it she notices the bags under his eyes. “And you’re right. We always knew having this baby puts this secret at risk, and if Thor is to find out, far better that we be the ones to tell him.”

Sif glances at the king and queen, who nod gravely back at her: they agree with telling Thor. So Sif kisses her husband softly, and settles onto a sofa.

Odin steps forward and pulls his son into an embrace. It warms Sif’s heart to see it; it’s taken years to repair the damaged relationship between father and son, but these days they are closer than they’ve been in decades. “It is the right choice,” the king says. “And one I should have had the courage to make a long time ago.” Though Odin was not pleased at first that Frigga made the decision to tell Loki without consulting with him first, he has come to understand the wisdom in her actions, and has apologized more than once for keeping the secret for so long.

Frigga takes one last chance to check the silencing spell cast on the room. And together, the family waits for Thor to arrive.

The god of thunder hasn’t quite recovered from the blow of being told he can’t go along when the baby is born, it’s clear from his muted movements and the tone of his voice when he enters the room. So Loki gets right to business. “Please sit,” he says tightly.

Thor takes a chair, and Loki sits next to Sif and takes her hand. “I have to apologize for my behavior yesterday,” he says. “I never meant to make you feel that we don’t want you there for our baby’s birth. By which I obviously mean outside with Father,” he adds quickly.

“I really prefer to have as little audience as possible,” Sif explains.

“But the truth is we lied to you about the purpose of the journey. There is not actually a stone circle that all the women of Sif’s family have given birth in since time immemorial.”

Thor frowns. “Then where . . .”

Loki sighs. He looks at Sif, who squeezes his hand. He looks at Frigga, who smiles lovingly at him. And he looks at Odin, who gives him an encouraging nod.

“The truth is,” he begins hesitantly, “there is a secret we have been keeping from you. A secret I only learned five years ago.”

Thor frowns. “A secret?” Loki was right; the crown prince does not like secrets and surprises.

“We thought keeping it was for the best at the time,” Odin chimes in. “We have come to realize the error of that decision.”

“What is it?” Thor demands.

“The truth is,” Loki says again, then hesitates, and Sif grips his hand tighter, “that I’m adopted.”

Thor stares. And then he grins. “Come on.”

“I mean it.”

“Surely I would have noticed by now,” Thor scoffs, and Sif can’t help snorting.

“Apparently not,” she mutters, and Loki gives her a quick half-smile.

Thor watches this exchange, wide-eyed, then looks up at his parents for confirmation. When they nod, he looks back at Loki. “All right, perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed.” He hesitates, then quirks a little smile. “It does explain why you don’t look like any of us.”

Loki’s tense shoulders relax somewhat, and somehow the usually-unobservant Thor notices. “Did you fear I would be upset by the news?” he asks. He leans forward so he can put a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “I am surprised, and trying to process this revelation. But know this: you are my brother, if not by blood, then in every other way that matters. And nothing will change that.”

And now Loki is breathing out a shuddery sigh, but Sif knows it is as much dread of what’s to come as relief about Thor’s sanguine reaction to the news. “Thank you . . . brother,” he says quietly. “But I’m afraid that is not all of the secret.”

Thor looks confused.

“The secret is that I am not Aesir.”

And now Thor looks baffled. “Not Aesir? Are you Vanir? You can’t be Midgardian, for you’ve already far outlived their tiny life spans.” He hesitates and ponders. “Xandarian? How long do they live?”

“Thor,” Loki cuts in, and gestures at his face. “This is not my natural appearance. This is an enchantment I apparently cast over myself the first time Father picked me up. Our parents allowed me to continue unconsciously maintaining it because it allowed me to blend in with the Asgardians.”

Thor frowns. “Then what are you?”

Loki hesitates, and Sif squeezes his hand and rubs her other hand over his arm. Thor notices and, in a rare moment of insight, says “Sif, you already know, don’t you?”

“I found out the day before he did,” she confesses quietly.

Loki gives her a little smile. “I could hardly have asked her to bear my child, or even marry me, without her knowing the truth of what I am.”

Thor looks at his parents. “You told Sif before me? Before they even got engaged? She was not family then!” Then, chagrined, he looks at his sister-in-law. “I don’t meant to disparage you,” he begins, but she waves an understanding hand.

“Do you remember the fight with the fire demon?” Loki asks, and Thor’s face falls.

“How could I forget?” he asks. “I nearly got you killed.”

“After, I believe Mother told you she took me to a moon of Vanaheim to heal me.”

“I am sorry for the lie, dear,” Frigga chimes in. “We were still protecting the secret then.”

Loki picks up the tale again. “She actually took me to a healer of my own kind, to see if she might fare better than Eir had with my extensive injuries. And she brought Sif as bodyguard, for she thought Sif would keep the secret best.”

Wanting to see Loki smile, Sif squeezes his hand and adds, “And she knew this young man here was in love with me, and thought that I might find out eventually anyway, if he ever got around to doing anything about his feelings.” It works: Loki smiles.

“This is all making a great deal of sense, actually,” Thor says. “For Hogun pointed out later that something must have happened on that trip, because you two avoided each other for a time afterwards.” And then he smiles a little. “And then suddenly you walked into the palace hand in hand and have been disgustingly in love with each other ever since.”

“Disgustingly,” Loki agrees solemnly, and Sif drops a kiss on his shoulder. “Hogun was right; Sif and I both learned the truth on that journey, and it set us on the path to admitting our feelings for each other. Anyway, now we are traveling to the same healer so she can help with the birth, just in case. So, you see, to allow you to accompany us would be to admit to a truth I wasn’t certain I was ready to tell you yet. That’s why I didn’t want you to come. And for no other reason. Under normal circumstances, of course I would want you present for the birth of my child.”

The brothers smile at each other and there’s a brief moment of respite, before a frown darkens Thor’s brow. “Now, brother, what is it that you keep avoiding telling me?”

Loki looks at him a long time, and then he sighs. “Mother took me to a healer of my own kind,” he repeats, then hesitates. “She took me . . . to Jotunheim.”

At least this time Thor has the good sense not to assume that Loki is joking. He stares at his brother, then at his parents, and then back at his brother. “You are a Jotun?”

Loki nods.

“You are a frost giant?”

Loki nods.

Thor is silent a long moment, and Sif thinks of how much he’s changed; the Thor of five years ago could not have heard this news with such equanimity. “May I see?”

Loki glances at Sif, then stands and takes a few steps away from the sofa. And then he shifts.

Her husband rarely assumes his Jotun form, but still, after five years Sif has seen it enough to come to find a certain beauty in it. His skin is the color of a summer sky—strange, she sometimes thinks, given that he is of a race of winter—and the ridges on his skin have come to fascinate her. Hundith told them, on one of their visits, that the marks have to do with clans, and ranks therein; Sif supposes that is why Loki, as the son of the king, has more than Hundith.

Wide-eyed and somber, Thor walks over to examine his brother while Loki fidgets. Finally the crown prince lifts a hand, as though to touch Loki’s face, and the younger prince quickly darts out of the way. “The touch of Jotun skin will freeze an Asgardian,” he explains. “I’ve never experienced it personally but I’m given to understand it’s quite unpleasant.”

“Quite unpleasant,” Odin confirms.

Thor turns to stare at his parents. “How did you come to adopt a frost giant?”

“After the last battle in the war with Jotunheim, I found an infant in the temple. I could hardly leave him there to die.”

“In the temple? Was he the child of a priest?”

Odin glances at Loki. “No. He was the son of Laufey.”

Truly, Thor has been admirably calm about all this. But this is the news that pushes him past the breaking point, and his response is loud and bewildered. “The son of Laufey? Are you telling me my brother is a kidnapped prince of Jotunheim?”

“It sounds exciting when you say it like that,” Sif remarks drily. “Like the beginning of an epic tale.”

“Not kidnapped,” says Odin. “Rescued. Laufey had abandoned the boy to die when he fled.” He hesitates. “But yes, technically, a prince of Jotunheim.”

“A title I want nothing to do with,” Loki assures Thor. “Prince of Asgard is the only title I care to have.”

After this statement Thor is silent so long, staring at his blue-skinned brother, that Loki fidgets uncomfortably and then shifts back into his Asgardian form. “As long as you have no objection to that,” he says, and Sif can see his anxiety increasing and his mask of calm beginning to waver.

Thor blinks. “What?”

Loki glances quickly at Sif, his eyes seeking reassurance. “I know this must be a shock, to learn that I am the son of Asgard’s great enemy. But I assure you, my loyalty, my heart, belongs to Asgard. To this family.”

And to Sif’s immense satisfaction and joy, Thor’s expression shifts to one of sudden understanding, and he steps forward and throws his arms around his brother. “It is a shock,” he confirms as Loki stands, surprised and awkward, in his embrace. “But only because I never suspected.” He leans back, gripping Loki’s arms. “And I do imagine I will be reexamining my entire life, trying to make sense of this revelation. But Loki, I meant what I said: you are my brother in every way that matters, and nothing will change that. Not even you being a Jotun prince.”

Loki stares at Thor, and with a sudden thrill of surprise and sympathy and affection, Sif realizes that there are tears in her husband’s eyes. “Thank you, Thor,” he whispers, as his shoulders relax suddenly, like a weight is sliding off them. Like a secret and a fear he’s been carrying for five years is sliding off them.

“Don’t you start crying,” Thor commands, his own eyes suspiciously bright. And this time it’s Loki who hugs Thor, wrapping his arms around the god of thunder’s massive form. “I love you, brother,” Thor insists. “And nothing can change that.”

“And I love you, brother.”

And now Frigga is weeping openly, and Odin is gazing at his sons with adoration and pride. But it’s Sif’s sniffles that have the two princes turning to stare at her in shock. “I have never seen you cry,” observes Thor, with an expression somewhere between amazement and terror.

“Cursed pregnancy hormones,” grumbles Sif.

. . . . . .

So it is the whole royal family that travels to Jotunheim, along with Eir. They leave the next day, in the late afternoon, once Sif has started what Eir describes as early labor; she assures the prince and princess that they will have plenty of time to get to Hundith’s. A crowd gathers at the palace to see them off—the rest of the kingdom still believing that Sif is traveling to give birth in the lands of her foremothers—and when they reach the Observatory, Heimdall drops a kiss on the top of his sister’s head in a rare gesture of brotherly affection.

By now the path to the old healer’s house is familiar; Loki and Sif have secretly visited twice since the wedding so Hundith could teach Loki more about his Jotun heritage, and twice since Sif got pregnant so Hundith could check the baby’s health. Sif makes the journey on the same sort of hover litter that Loki was on when they first visited; only the discomfort of early labor could make Sif willing to be towed along behind a horse like some kind of child or invalid.

Loki rides the horse that tows her, and he looks back at her every thirty seconds to give her reassuring smiles that don’t mask the anxiety in his eyes. She knows the feeling. The last Aesir-Jotun child was born so long ago that none remember the details of the birth; Eir and Hundith both say that both mother and child seem to be healthy, but there are so many unknown variables that neither healer is willing to promise that everything will go well.

With this knowledge hanging over their heads, a certain tension permeates the group—except for Thor. They didn’t bother telling him the danger, for there is nothing he could do about it and his fretting would undoubtedly only add to the general agitation, so he is riding at the head of the group with his mother and loudly exclaiming over seeing Jotunheim for the first time. Sif shakes her head fondly at her brother in arms—and in law—and is glad there are three powerful sorcerers in the group, shielding their party from outside notice.

But they have not escaped Hundith’s notice, for when they come in view of the healer’s house, she is standing at the gate waiting for them in the light of the setting sun. Despite her increasing discomfort, Sif grins broadly and slides off the hover litter, eager to greet the impertinent old Jotun who has become a dear friend.

“It is good to see you,” she says, and the giantess’s weathered face breaks into a broad grin.

“Welcome back, girl. I have everything ready for you. You certainly left it late enough; another hour and these woods would not be safe to travel in.”

Frigga greets her no less warmly; Loki shifts briefly into his Jotun form so he can clasp her arm in a traditional Jotun greeting, and then shifts back so he can help Sif back onto the litter—the discomfort in her abdomen is increasing and she finds she prefers sitting—and then sit beside her, his arm snaked around her waist. Jotunheim is cold enough that despite having been overheated these last several weeks, Sif welcomes his body warmth.

Hundith tilts her head in a listening pose, her sightless eyes staring. “There are more in your group than I expected,” she observes.

“Of course, I should make introductions,” says Frigga. “Here is the Asgardian healer we spoke of.”

“Mistress healer,” says Eir, bowing her head although the old Jotun can’t see it.

“We’ll be glad to have your expertise,” says Hundith, then adds, “As long as you remember: my house, my sick room, my rules, you do what I say.”

“But—” Eir begins, and Frigga says “Well—” as Sif fails to hide a snicker.

“Of course,” Loki says smoothly to Hundith, “but do recall, you’re both here to help with the baby, but she’s here to look after my lovely wife. So I’d appreciate you giving her the freedom to do as she needs.”

“You always did have a silver tongue, boy,” Hundith snorts. “Of course I have no intention of interfering with her work. It’s just good to have a chain of command in place.”

Eir opens her mouth to object again, but at a look from Frigga, subsides.

“And here is my husband,” the queen continues, and the king steps forward and says kindly, “Lady healer, please accept my thanks for all you have done for my son and his wife.”

“Very polite, isn’t he?” Hundith asks, and apparently feels no need to return the favor, because she adds, “So you’re the one who always favored the older son, are you?”

Frigga and Odin both freeze at that, the Allfather’s face trapped in a sort of grimace, while Thor frowns and Loki looks amused and slightly gratified.

Sif just laughs. “You do know how to make a good impression on a new acquaintance, Hundith.”

Hundith shrugs. “Thought someone ought to bring it up,” she says, blithely unconcerned, and Sif wonders if the old woman would be so blase if she knew she was speaking to Odin Allfather, one of the most powerful and important beings in the Nine Realms.

“It has been brought to my attention that I have not always been fair to my boy,” Odin says stiffly. “I am working on remedying that.”

“I should hope so.”

“Stand down,” Loki chuckles. “He speaks the truth. Though I appreciate your efforts in my behalf.”

“Glad to hear it,” says Hundith. “And who’s the fifth?”

Loki looks at Thor with a little smirk. “The favored older son.”

“Come now—” begins Thor with a frown.

“Don’t provoke your brother,” Sif scolds. “Hundith, this is my brother-in-law, fellow warrior, and dear friend.”

Hundith turns her head in the direction of Loki and Sif. “I thought he didn’t know.”

“I told him,” Loki says. “We thought it was time.”

Hundith nods. “Come closer, boy,” she commands, and Thor glances at Loki, then takes a step forward. He has been mostly quiet all this while, too busy staring at Hundith to say anything—it’s probably for the best, Sif thinks, that Hundith cannot see his rather forward stare.

“So you are the older son,” she says, and he confirms that he is. “And a warrior?”

He glances at Sif then, clearly wondering what to say. They warned him before coming that they have managed to conceal their identities all these years: Hundith knows that they are Asgardian, but not the royal family of Asgard. (It is no longer out of fear that Hundith could betray them, but out of fear that the knowledge could put the old healer in danger.) So he knows they do not use names or give any details that could betray their true identities.

Sif nods at him, so he confirms that he is.

“But your brother here, he’s more of a sorcerer and a scholar, is that true?”

“He is a fine warrior,” Thor says proudly, clapping a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “But yes, his focus is largely on his studies. Which is excellent—his magic and his strategic mind have been a great boon to me on many occasions.”

That’s doing it a bit brown, Sif thinks; Thor has not always been so accepting of his brother’s preference for magic over the martial arts. But she’s not surprised that he would rally so to his brother’s defense, when Loki’s prowess as a warrior is being called into question.

And she wonders where Hundith is going with this line of questioning.

“And he’s a Jotun.”

“As I’ve recently learned,” Thor agrees.

And Hundith leans forward, mischief in the lines of her face. “So how did it feel when the Jotun sorcerer won the heart of the Asgardian warrior woman? Stole her right out from under your nose?”

Ah, that’s where she’s going with it. Sif rolls her eyes in fond amusement and hears Loki snort.

“Uh . . .” Thor glances uncertainly at his brother and sister-in-law, and Sif takes pity on him.

“Hundith is very invested in the idea that your brother got one up on you by marrying me. Like a victory for Jotunheim.” She turns an amused glance at Hundith. “To which I always respond, I have no interest in being a prize to be squabbled over.”

Thor’s eyebrows raise in understanding. “My brother certainly did marry one of the strongest warriors and prettiest women in Asgard,” he declares loyally. “And he is the first to give our parents a daughter-in-law and a grandchild. So he has certainly got me beat there.”

“I know you’re pandering to me,” says Hundith. “But it’s what I want to hear, so I’ll take it.”

There’s polite skepticism on Odin and Eir’s faces now, likely wondering how powerful and intelligent this dotty old giantess could be. Sif just grins. They will be impressed by Hundith’s abilities soon enough.

. . . . . .

It is a fortunate thing that Sif does not back down from difficult things, because labor is far more difficult than she expected, and lengthy, too. Her water breaks around midnight, and then she passes a restless night on the bed made up on Hundith’s main room, catching what snatches of sleep she can; Eir’s pain relief spell soothes some of her discomfort, but she still never manages to quite get comfortable. She feels sorry for Loki, who spends the night curled up next to her on the bed, smoothing her hair and murmuring words of comfort and just generally getting very little sleep.

She also feels sorry for Eir and Frigga, who pass the night on bedrolls on the floor, and most sorry for Thor and Odin, who spend the night out in the barn; Loki did what magic he could to improve the warmth and the smell, but still, it’s hardly the feather beds and silk sheets they’re accustomed to. (Loki reports that Thor bears it cheerfully but Odin seems less than thrilled, and Sif cannot decide if she is more touched that her father-in-law would bear such discomfort for the sake of her child, or more amused at the thought of Odin Allfather spending the night in a frost giant’s barn.)

Around dawn her contractions begin in earnest, and no injury she’s sustained on the battlefield has prepared her for this pain. At one point she asks the three women attending her if this is normal or if she is in extra distress because the baby is half-Jotun, but none can give her an answer. But the two healers are competent and reassuring, and Frigga talks her through her contractions and fetches her water and rubs her shoulders and smooths down her hair, and Loki never once leaves her side, holding her hand and kissing her cheek and doing a terrible job of pretending he isn’t stressed to the breaking point.

“I thought you were supposed to be good at lying,” she hisses at him at one point after he’s told her it’ll be over soon and everything’s fine.

But it was not a lie, it turns out, for in the late afternoon, Loki and Sif’s son comes into the world and into Eir’s hands (gloved, as they have no idea if the baby’s skin will freeze her). Eir quickly cuts the cord and cleans him off and wraps him up and hands the crying child to Sif; Loki climbs onto the bed to crowd next to her, and the pair gaze down in wonder at their child.

The baby is, as the healers predicted, a mix of his parents: skin a robin’s egg blue, as light as Hundith’s; a soft fuzz of black hair. The traditional ridges of a Jotun appear as darker colored marks against his skin; Hundith told them that infants usually have subtle ridges that increase in height as they grow older, but that their son could have no markings at all, being half-Aesir. It turns out to be somewhere in the middle. The boy has some of the same markings as his father—marks related to their clan—and Sif feels an unexpected surge of pride at that.

Sif has long worried she is not suited to be a mother, having never particularly planned for it, and that she will have no idea what to do with a baby, having never spent much time around them or even played with dolls as a child. But the rush of love that washes over her as she looks down at her son nearly chokes her, and she quickly finds some instinct or forgotten memory that teaches her to speak softly and soothingly to the baby until his crying ceases. But it doesn’t stop her husband crying, apparently, for when he laughs and speaks, his voice is choked: “He’s perfect.”

There’s something important to be determined first, and with a glance at Loki, Sif reaches out and gently touches the infants nose . . . and immediately withdraws her finger. “Quite cold,” she reports.

Loki moves away from her so he can shift to his Jotun form, then reaches out with the gentlest of motions to brush a finger against the baby’s cheek; he does not react at all. “The Jotun touch seems not to burn him,” he reports as he shifts back.

“So he has inherited that from his father’s side,” Hundith says. “That will make it easier for me to examine him, and harder for you Asgardians.” But her examination at the moment consists simply of holding her hands above the baby’s head, muttering a few things under breath, then announcing, “It is clear he is not a normal Jotun. But he is perfectly healthy.”

Eir does something similar and announces the same.

Frigga comes over with tears in her eyes to lean over Sif’s shoulder and coo at the baby, then to kiss Sif’s cheek, then Loki’s. “What will you call him?” she asks.

This is something Loki and Sif have had planned from the very beginning of the pregnancy. “Ullr,” Loki says with a smile down at the baby.

“Glory?” Hundith repeats. “How very like a warrior.”

But Sif shakes her head and smiles. “Glory is indeed won in battle, but the battle we have is mind is not one fought with weapons, but the battle to reach this point; for so long, neither of us ever thought we would get here. That is our victory and our glory. Just to be here with him.”

And now Frigga is crying openly, and that starts Loki off again, and Sif once again feels her eyes water as she looks from her mother-in-law to her husband to her new son, and thinks to herself she shall be glad when pregnancy is no longer wreaking havoc on her hormones and she is no longer such a watering pot.

There is a knock at the door. “We heard a baby crying,” Thor announces. “Is all well?”

Loki rolls his eyes fondly, but Sif shrugs. “We might as well let them see the baby for a moment. Then perhaps they will more readily give us some time alone.”

So Thor and Odin file in to exclaim over the new royal baby; Sif is gratified to see that neither seems overly bothered by Ullr’s blue skin, though they are both disappointed to know they can’t touch him.

“A grandson,” says Odin with great pride and pleasure. “A strong boy to bring honor to our house.”

“He has your nose,” Thor announces to Sif. Sif looks down at the baby’s little snub nose and decides not to take it as insult.

At the loud new voices, Ullr’s scrunched up little eyes finally open. To everyone’s surprise, they are not Jotun red, but a bright amber that Sif has never seen in any Jotun or Asgardian, though the color is somewhat similar to Heimdall’s.

“Hello dearest,” says Sif softly, and those little amber eyes focus on her. And after a moment, he starts to shift: blue changing to peach, markings fading, and in a moment he looks Asgardian. But those golden eyes do not change. Sif looks to Loki, but he seems as startled as she is; Ullr is the one working this enchantment. Surprised and curious, Sif reaches out and strokes his skin: it is now Aesir-warm. She has to admit she is pleased he has shifted, simply so that she can touch him without Loki working an enchantment to negate the burning cold of Jotun skin. And she responds by pressing her lips to his dear little face.

And Frigga chuckles. “You have quite the little sorcerer on your hands.”

“Only imagine,” laughs Odin, clapping a hand on Loki’s shoulder, “He’s going to be even more of a handful than you were!”

But Sif’s focus is on Loki; she does not want him to feel his son has chosen a side— But Loki just smiles and leans forward to kiss her. “This will be easier for him at first,” he says softly. “And for us, to care for him. And we will tell him when he is old enough to understand.”

She nods and looks down at her son, now looking Aesir, and firmly promises herself she will never favor his Aesir face over his Jotun one.

As though hearing her thoughts, Odin says, “And we will love him no matter what face he wears.”

And Thor adds helpfully, “And think what a tactical advantage it would give him in battle, to be able to access Jotun abilities!”

“Now that is spoken like a true warrior,” Hundith snorts. “All right, everyone needs to get out. These three need some time alone, to rest and bond.”

“A fine idea,” Eir declares. Sif, who thoroughly agrees, returns her attention to the tiny baby in her arms, amber eyes still open and, she notices now, slightly crossed. It’s adorable, and she falls in love with the child all over again. Loki returns his attention to the baby as well, and reaches his finger out to touch a tiny hand with its tiny, perfect fingers and nails.

“Then we will be outside,” Frigga says warmly, and walks over to join her husband and eldest son, stopping along the way to drop a kiss on top of Ullr’s dark hair.

Before they go Odin turns to Hundith. “And thank you again, mistress healer, for your help in this and in helping my son in the past.”

“I don’t mind at all,” says Hundith in a voice so sweet and innocent that Sif is immediately on her guard. “It’s quite a privilege to help deliver the grandson of Odin Allfather.”

There is absolute silence in the room as the royal family exchanges nervous glances. “What makes you say—” Frigga begins, and Hundith snorts.

“Dear Frigga Allmother, queen of Asgard, I hope we have known each other long enough now for you to know you’re not going to fool me.” She huffs indignantly. “How oblivious do you people think I am? I’m blind, not stupid.”

Sif starts to snicker, and Loki laughs and rests his forehead against his wife’s shoulder. “All this time, we were trying to be so careful—”

“You made a valiant effort, Loki Odinson,” Hundith says commiseratingly. “Or should I say Loki Laufeyson?”

“How—” Loki demands, then cuts himself off with a sigh.

Odin is just staring impassively at the old woman.

“I suppose this is the part where you tell us that if you’d been going to turn us in to Laufey, you would have done so already,” Sif notes, smirking, though even this new revelation can’t distract her long from tracing a finger along Ullr’s tiny, soft ears.

“Exactly,” says Hundith, then looks in the direction of Loki’s voice. “And let me assure you, princeling, if there is ever a succession crisis on Jotun, you will have my support. And the support of all my descendants and our neighbors. If I tell them, which I haven’t,” she’s quick to add.

“Thank you, I suppose,” chuckles Loki.

“How long have you known?” asks Frigga.

“Since about a half-hour after I first met you,” says Hundith serenely.

Odin frowns. “And you kept it a secret and let us try to conceal our identities so long . . . ?”

“For her own amusement,” Loki and Sif chime in together.

“Exactly,” says Hundith, sounding pleased.

But Odin doesn’t know Hundith the way the others do, and he still looks very serious. “You understand my concern, though,” he says. “You swear you do not intend to tell Laufey?”

She jerks a weathered thumb toward Loki and Sif. “I like these two a lot better than I do my king. Short-sighted, bloody-minded fool.” Sif supposes she’s speaking of Laufey, although it could describe Odin at times as well.

“And do you . . . expect anything in return for you silence?”

Sif winces, but Hundith just smiles. “Of course,” she says, and a stormcloud gathers on Odin’s brow. “I get to be Ullr’s godmother.”

At this Sif snorts, Odin’s expression clears, and Loki asks, “Are godparents a Jotun tradition? If so, of course you can have the position. You’re the only Jotun we know.”

“Good,” grins Hundith, pleased as punch. “It’s been a long time since there’s been a baby for me to spoil.”

“Wait, are godparent positions just available for the asking?” Thor asks. “Because I’d love to be his godfather.”

“You’re already his uncle,” Loki points out.

“We can discuss this later,” Frigga says firmly. “Hundith is right, let’s give them time alone.”

“I’ll be back shortly, Sif,” Eir adds, “to help you start feeding.”

The king and queen and prince leave, each stopping to touch or kiss the baby, now that they can; Eir and the baby’s new godmother follow, discussing some arcane bit of healing magic.

They are finally alone. Sif scoots over, and Loki takes the unspoken invitation to kick off his boots and bring his legs up so he is reclining beside her on the massive mound of pillows. She hands him his son, and the look on his face is enough to set her eyes to watering all over again.

“He’s perfect,” Loki says again, in tones of wonder and awe.

“He is,” Sif agrees, then adds carefully, “but he was perfect before he shifted, too.”

The look on Loki’s face says that he knows she’s trying to assuage his habitual self-doubt, and that he appreciates it.

Ullr’s eyelids start to droop, and Loki holds him closer while Sif cuddles up close to her husband's side. “Thank you, Sif,” he says quietly. “For everything.”

“Always,” she whispers back.

And together they smile at their son.

. . . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now it's really over! In case you're wondering, I have a massive headcanon for what happens after the end of this story, which I will never write because it would be long and boring, in which Loki (and Ullr after him) eventually becomes king of Jotunheim and Hundith gets the comfort in her old age of knowing her beloved Jotunheim is in the hands of a better king than Laufey.


End file.
